


I See a Darkness

by Twisted_Slinky



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV), Supernatural
Genre: Abduction, Case Fic, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Misunderstandings, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Past Child Abuse, Serial Killers, Team Feels, Torture, Triggers, Unsub | Unknown Subject
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-02-23 03:47:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 70,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Slinky/pseuds/Twisted_Slinky
Summary: Working a case, Dean and Sam run into a problem, and they make the worse decision possible: they kidnap two members of the BAU. Between Fed-sitting and hunting a killer collecting siblings, the boys aren't having their best day ever.
Comments: 135
Kudos: 839
Collections: Kudos folder, Works That Will Not Leave You Alone





	1. Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

**Author's Note:**

> **Story Warnings:** Later mentions of child abuse, children in danger, murder, torture, violence...basically everything you'd get from watching either of these shows. While there is implications of sexual abuse as well, I don't clarify or describe any such content. 
> 
> **Story Setting:** Season 4 for both shows, though time doesn't exactly line up. After "Wishful Thinking" for SPN, after JJ returns for CM.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own _Supernatural_ or _Criminal Minds_. Or Attalla, Alabama (real place, but fully fictionalized for this story, even if the locations are based on nearby towns). I am making no money off of this story or any included photo manipulations. Written for fun only.
> 
>  **A/N** : This story was originally started on fanfiction-dot-net in 2011 and put on hold in 2012. Now, eight years later, I'm working on the last half. There have been passionate readers over the years asking me to finish the story, so at long last, I'm preparing to post the conclusion. While I edit and finish up that final chapters over the next week or so, I decided to go ahead and crosspost the older chapters here on AO3. Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**NOW**

* * *

Perhaps blasting Metallica wasn't the best choice at the moment. Dean recognized as much, but his fingers refused to pry from the steering wheel. Clicking out the tape would be admitting there was a problem, that this little ride was different from any of the ones before. And Dean wasn't in the mood for the inevitable silence.

Sam, however, was. He reached forward, breaking Metallicar rule _numero uno_. The cassette clicked out. For half a second, he tensed, ready to toss it over his shoulder in aggravation, but he thought better of it.

It probably wouldn't do to hit their backseat passengers with a flying object. Kidnapping was a bad enough charge without the added assault.

"So," Sam cleared his throat.

Nothing followed.

Dean could feel his brother's eyes on him, asking a silent question, and damned if he had an answer. This was his own fault, Dean knew that, but his little brother had went along with the move. And now they were both regretting the call.

Why the hell didn't they just run for it? Wasn't like Cupcake and the Scarecrow were going to catch up with the Impala before they got off the beaten path.

But running would have meant leaving the job behind. For the Feds to take care of. Two of which were currently nestled in the backseat wearing handcuffs - Dean had told Sam he hadn't picked those up just for kinky stuff - and silent as mute Church mice. The quiet part, that was unnerving in and of itself.

Dean's shoulders tightened when he saw headlights in the distance, beaming through the rain. He couldn't see the make of the car. Narrow green eyes darted up to the rearview mirror, watching their hostages. The kid, sad eyed and slouched, looked longingly at the oncoming vehicle but didn't make a move to alert the driver. Dean released an anxious breath when the car passed without slowing.

"Caleb's cabin?" Sam asked.

Dean jumped slightly, caught himself, and pretended it didn't happen. _Jesus._ He was wound tighter than a two dollar watch. Grunting, he nodded.

When they'd first arrived in town, they'd decided on the motel instead of the cabin for the simple reason that it had been a near decade since they'd last seen the old shack. Electricity, plumbing, those things were up in the air.

"Don't have much of a choice," Dean replied. "We're going to need somewhere secluded."

The woman behind Sam whimpered slightly. It was strained, as if she'd been trying to hold in the sound far too long. Dean took his eyes off the road for a split second.

"Calm down, Penelope," he said, flashing her what he hoped was a non-predatory smile. "You're gonna be just fine."

"It's not too late." Her voice was higher, pinched. A plum-glossed lip quivered slightly. "You could just leave us here…You don't have to do -" She hesitated at the wording, looking desperately to the young man at her side, but the agent was unusually quiet, his brown eyes pleading. Penelope shook her head, the messy ball of blond at her crown bouncing with the movement. "You don't have to do whatever you're planning to do," she finished.

She looked defeated, knowing the words hadn't been enough. Sam was nearly turned in his seat, staring back at her with an apologetic half-smile on his face.

Dean watched the road. Even the desperation in the woman's voice was more welcoming than the quiet settled over the seat behind his. "Hey, kid," he called, not looking up. The agent had called himself something when Sam had asked… Dean's brow wrinkled when he recalled the title. "Got a name other than Dr. Reid?" Dean tried to put a smile in the question and failed. "Seems a little too formal for this situation."

Nearly a minute passed. Dean could practically hear the wheels turning in the young agent's mind. Finally, a reply came.

"Spencer."

* * *

" _When brothers agree, no fortress is so strong as their common life." ~_ Antisthenes

* * *

**THEN**

* * *

Waiting and watching. He was always waiting and watching. That was his earliest memory. Standing behind a door, looking above the first set of rusted hinges, watching Daddy get piss drunk in the living room.

Fists pumped at his sides, anger built a fortress inside him. Ricky didn't like those memories. Not at all. No waiting. No more waiting.

Even on a Friday night, there were barely a dozen out for the midnight showing at the dusty two-plex, a relic of a time when Attalla promised to grow out of a shabby town and into a bigger, better city. That time had passed as soon as the steel factories had chosen a better location, but The Dixie Theater remained. A crowd moved out of the front double doors, all teens, throwing leftover popcorn at each other. The air filled with them: giggles, curses, whines. _Sickening_.

One of these, one of these had to be right.

An icy breeze crawled over him, hesitating at his neck like a cold touch. But even it didn't stop the fresh sweat from pasting his blond hair to his forehead.

"Patience, little brother." A hand rose beside him, snow white in the darkness. A finger straighten, pointing out two of the girls who had separated from the others. "There she is. Did you send it yet?"

Ricky nodded, his southern drawl was more pronounced than his brother's. "Sure did."

"Then let's get a front row seat."

Ricky smiled.

The girls weren't laughing with the rest. Lily, _Lily was her name_ , Ricky remembered. Lily had red hair cut below her ears and a sour expression on her face. _Severe._ Severe was the right word for her. And she was older than most the others, right out of her teens but still dressed in the same high school wardrobe.

"Have you spoken to Galvin since you got home?" the other girl asked.

Lily snorted. "Nicky," she groaned. "You know, as soon as he calls and apologizes for stealing from me, I'll talk to him. Until then…"

"It was twenty bucks two months ago," Nicky smiled. "Does he even know you're in town?"

"A _stolen_ twenty bucks, and we've gone longer than two months without talking." Lily shook her head, bitter. Her eyes were downcast, focused on digging her phone out of her purse. "And of course he knows I'm here. He knows I only spend every other weekend at the college. It's not I'm the one avoiding him."

"He's your brother."

Lily came to a stop, shaking her head. "And you're an only child, Nicky. Come to me when you have a pain in the ass sharing DNA with you." The phone in her hands chirped, and she glanced down with a frown. "Speak of the devil…"

Nicky smirked, taking a step back when she saw the other teens piling into their cars. "Well, my ride's headed out. Call you."

Lily nodded, not acknowledging the girl's goodbye as she fumbled with the phone. Her feet had a mind of their own, leading her to the side of her own car, away from the rest.

 _Separate from the herd._ Ricky didn't like to wait, but he was getting more and more excited about the watching part.

Lily didn't see him crouched low against the hedges. Couldn't know he was there. And yet her eyes widened with horror. Fingers shaking, she held the screen of her phone closer to her face.

" _Galvin_ ," she whispered. Her free hand came up, holding her lips closed to stop whatever else was about to leave her mouth. "Oh God," still managed to escape. " _Oh God, Galvin ..."_

Her fingers went to work, fumbling for the 9. Then 1. Another. She didn't make it to send when the phone went dead, its power drained without warning. Confusion crossed her face the moment she looked up. It didn't register at first. Ricky could tell, she didn't understand what had just happened.

And she certainly didn't understand how the man standing in front of her had approached without her noticing. But her expression changed in an instant to one of pure terror. Lily didn't have time to scream.

Ricky stood from his crouch, watching his brother with pride. Some days, it was good to be the one watching.

"Worth the wait," he muttered, grinning.

* * *

Penelope Garcia had come to one conclusion about this particular Sunday afternoon: it sucked. Sure, being called into work because mutilated bodies were discovered was never a good thing, but Penelope had expected it to, at the very least, be business as usual. No such luck. Her lovelies had just returned from one trying case, ready to go home and unpack when J.J. had stopped them with that this-is-a-bad-one look in her eyes. So Penelope had found herself an energy drink and went to the briefing with the full intention of helping the team in any way possible. She hadn't realized that "any way possible" meant getting on the jet and traveling south with them.

"What is it with crazies and videotapes?" she asked, knowing each of the profilers would be quick to give her an answer she already knew. Thankfully none of them were around to do so. God love them, but she didn't always care to travel into a murder's sick mind.

Penelope stepped out of the motel room, wincing when she put weight on her left side. As if two case assignments in a forty-eight-hour period and a trip to the middle of nowhere wasn't bad enough, she'd twisted her ankle walking up the steps to the sheriff's station.

Not that she was going to tell the others that she'd actually managed to injure herself within half an hour of arriving.

Thankfully, Hotch had sent her and Reid to check in at the motel. "Before they give away our rooms" had been his exact words, but Garcia, judging from the two cars and a motorcycle parted in front of the ground level building, somehow doubted there would be any chance of that actually happening. Thinking of the youngest G-man, she glanced the window shades to the next room over. They'd been closed already. No doubt, Dr. Reid was actually taking advantage of the few hours of sleep he was going to get before the others arrived from visiting the parents of the last victims.

Tucking the ice bucket and a clear plastic bag under her arm, she moved down the line of doors, eyes searching for the vending area. _If_ this motel actual had one. Not that she was a hospitalities snob, but this place was nowhere near one-star. Flower themed rooms that looked as if they were decorated in the late seventies, the constant scent of mildew and cigarettes… It had taken all of her willpower not to gag when she stepped over the used condom laying across the sidewalk like an abandoned banana peel.

"No, not recommending the Emperor's Inn," she muttered.

The sign for ICE was positioned at the end of the building. _Lovely, more walking._ Penelope hobbled toward it, listing in her head all the things she could possibly be doing with her evening that didn't involve a very cheap hotel and a data file of videos and pictures starring torture victims. It was somewhat disappointing how short that list actually was, though. She and Kevin had been playing the "I'm mad at you but not willing to talk about it" game for the past two weeks and most of her social calendar involved the other agents who would still be stuck in this town, hunting down a murderer, with or without her.

"Well, sigh," Penelope commented, turning the corner. Her brow shot up. "Or not."

Because, just when she thought the evening would only get better after a hot shower and a few hours on a lumpy mattress, low and behold a delicious backside in denim.

The legs beneath said-backside shifted, as if realizing they had an audience and wanting to show off. After a second, a man pulled his upper torso free from inside the ice box, dragging an overfilled bucket up with him. He dumped the contents into a cooler sitting at his feet before looking up. The white panty-dropper smile he flashed turned Penelope's brain to mush.

"Why, hello there," he said in a husky voice. And the smile didn't lift when his roaming eyes took her in within the length of one gulp.

Penelope resisted the urge to look down and check what she was wearing. Apparently, the pink sundress and sweater combination was enough to keep a guy's interest. Or maybe it was just the low-cut top. Yup. That was probably it. Because Penelope refused to believe a guy that…well, _built,_ could be genuinely interested past a second glance.

She blinked dumbly at his bent over form before finally flashing her own grin. "Hello yourself," she returned.

His lips twitched, amused by the delayed response. "Well, sweetheart, I hope you're not looking to cool down any time soon."

 _You little flirt, you._ Garcia raised a brow at the statement, letting her mouth drop open slightly.

He straightened up, stretching out his broad shoulders and resting one elbow on the top of the machine. With a little wink, he added, "Cause the machine's on the fritz. Barely a bucketful left inside. But I suppose I could share."

"Oh, I wasn't that interested in ice anyhow." Garcia shrugged, letting her eyes drop on the ice-dampened front of his black t-shirt. "Mainly came to see the sights."

He coughed down the response that had been brewing, thrown off. When his green eyes found her steady smile again, though, they widened slightly. His expression was one she recognized often, though usually she was only on the receiving end when solving an especially complicated computer problem. Hot Flirty Stranger was impressed.

 _Bad, Penelope, bad_ , she chided, but sauntered forward. Well, would have sauntered forward if her ankle hadn't chosen that moment to send a shock of pain up her leg. She winced, stumbling instead.

A thick arm caught her around the waist, holding her steady, "I usually have a first name before I get this close to a woman."

Penelope snorted. _Fat chance_. But let him guide her toward a rickety looking aluminum chair unfolded beside the machine. He kicked the ash tray beside it out of her way and gently lowered her down. His fingers snatched her bag away before she had a chance to ask.

"I'm Dean," he said, scraping together a couple handfuls of ice.

Deciding to play along, "Penelope."

Dean twisted the top of the bag and bent down to one knee. "You need to elevate this, Penelope," he replied. Before she could stop him, his fingers were lifting the heel of her shoe. He carefully pushed the ice against her foot. "How's that feel? Better?"

Penelope hissed through her teeth, but the throb in her ankle was quickly numbing. She nodded along, a blissful curl to her lips. She cocked her head, looking down at the man knelt in front of her like a regular prince in torn denim. A slight sigh of regret left her mouth.

"Where were you a year ago?" she mused, painfully aware that she now had a boyfriend. A real one, not a digital one, who was back home, waiting for her.

Dean chuckled, but it was stiffer than before. "Running from Hell," he replied, smirking, "and look at that, I found Heaven. How about you and me get a drink, Penny?"

 _Oh, pumpkin, I wish_. Penelope frowned, an apology at her wrinkled brow. There was absolutely no way she was going on a date with a too-attractive-for-words stranger. She'd been down that path. At the end of it there was a handgun and an unattractive scar. The memory made the ice's deep touch seem all the more chilling.

"Or maybe another time," Dean said, letting her off the hook.

Penelope nodded, thankful, and knowing that his "another time" meant the same as hers: never.

"Garcia? You weren't in your room..."

Spencer rounded the corner, coming to a quick stop when he took in the scene.

Penelope's eyes shot from one man to the other, blood rising to her cheeks just as quickly. She chided herself. Nothing to see here, just a stranger touching her leg, nothing to feel guilty about, no sir-ree.

"Nope, pudding-cakes, I was out here."

But Penelope's happy expression dropped when she noticed Reid take an automatic step back, his eye's wide. He quickly shook his head, clearing his throat. "Um, sorry to interrupt," he coughed, "Hotch called. With, um, an update. We should," he took an unsteady breath, "we should head back to the room and call him back."

Penelope shook her head, confused, and it grew tenfold when she turned to give her goodbyes to her new acquaintance. Dean's focus was no longer on her, though the ice was still pressed firmly on her ankle. His eyes had narrowed slightly, brow dropped, body angled toward the agent.

"Dean?" She laughed, nervous, but he didn't seem to hear her. "Dr. Reid? Hello? Did I miss something?"

* * *

The moment he'd spotted her checking him out, Dean knew she wasn't the type who'd come back to the room with him. She had "sweetheart" written all over her colorfully accented face. And, if he was honest with himself, that made it a touch easier to play the flirt. But before he'd even noted that she was cute as a button, she'd pulled out her own cards.

 _Frisky. Damn._ Which kinda made Dean wish she was _that_ kind of girl. And Penelope… he didn't have any Penelopes listed on his phone yet. He'd held down his sigh with a fresh smile. Another place, another time. He was resigned to their fate.

And then the kid had stepped in.

"Garcia? You weren't in your room..."

Didn't take an expert to spot the gun openly displayed on the young man's belt. And, even without the accompanying badge, that sent one clear message: law enforcement. Dean stopped himself from reacting automatically. He'd run into plenty of police officers in the past without being recognized, especially of late. This guy didn't quite rub him as a cop, though, more of the mathletes type. He'd almost forgotten that the _real_ Feds were supposed to be arriving in town.

Still, even most Feds didn't keep up with twice-dead criminals. Except for maybe this one.

The agent tried to stop himself from reacting. But the expression on his face was one Dean recognized -- like he'd seen a ghost. Which, hey, Dean was supposed to be dead. So, understandable.

Dean's gaze narrowed, waiting for him to make a move.

"We should head back to the room and call Hotch back," the agent finished.

 _Props, kid. Get the girl out of the way first._ Dean had to give him that. Still, Penelope didn't budge, and Dean knew that the kid had realized his own reaction had not went unnoticed.

Slender, twitching fingers made their way closer to the belt holster.

Dean couldn't help the slight frown on his face when the kid's eyes widened in horror. No doubt a presence in the shape of a gun barrel was making itself known to the agent's spine. Sam was getting good at scaring the shit out of people. And, apparently, sneaking up behind Feds.

Dean watched his little brother close the distance between himself and the agent's back. The kid's hand was still hovering over his own piece.

"Not a good idea," Sam warned him, and shot his brother an angry glance that clearly said, "I'm blaming you for this one."

* * *

Six murders in five weeks. When the sheriff had first called the team, there had only been four dead. The last two bodies had been found mere hours before the BAU's plane had landed.

Agent Hotchner ran his fingers under his chin, studying the board with more energy than he should have had left after the past week. He was going to put it to good work, if at all possible.

Without realizing it, he glanced up, hearing J.J.'s voice, but she was a room away, on the phone with the local news station, trying to keep out details that had managed to make their way out after the last murders. It would be hard to keep a handle on the torture aspect, though. It always was. Hotch didn't envy her job.

With Morgan at the dump site with a crime scene team, taking advantage of the last few rays of daylight, Hotch had sent Rossi with Prentiss to speak with the parents of the second pair of victims. He, himself, had already spoken with the parents of Galvin and Lily Marks. The couple had just left the station, still shaking with rage and tears. It had been too soon for them.

It would always be too soon.

Hotch turned back to the photographs. The ages differentiated, as did the gender, but there was one clear, undeniable tie between all of them. They were siblings. The Unsub was tormenting and killing off siblings in pairs, starting each cycle by abducting the youngest out of the two.

Between the torture and the video-taping, he'd been inclined to suspect sexual sadism, but it seemed the images weren't intended as a means to relive the act, but, instead, made purely for the sake of instilling fear in the second victim of each pair. The older sibling, forced to see the younger in pain. There was a statement to be made here.

"You ever seen anything like this before?"

Hotch glanced over his shoulder. Sheriff Jesse McKinney was standing a few feet away, distancing himself from the FBI's workspace. The man was surprisingly young and looked the part of a short, kind-faced deputy, but judging by how Hotch had seen him interact with his men, he was well regarded in the community and respected as a figure of authority. Sheriff McKinney ran a hand over his short black hair, his olive-tone skin washed of color by the white lighting above.

"I mean, like the tapes, the pictures. Killers sharing their…work like this," the Sheriff finished. "Does that happen often?"

Hotch nodded, the Hankel case coming to mind immediately. But, in truth, they were no where near the same. The Unsub was sending a message, sure, but not to the world as a whole. He didn't care about the world.

"A case in Florida," he finally replied. "The Unsubs were sending video tapes to parents of the victims being tortured and raped."

Jesse swallowed. "That's what you meant at the preliminary profile your team gave." The profile had been quick but efficient: male, white, still youthful in his experimental methods, mid-twenties to early thirties. And then there was the sibling connection to consider. There was a history there, a violent one. "About him focusing on the eldest?"

The Unsub wasn't sending parents any word of their children's whereabouts. In the first case, an envelope of pictures had been sent to the victim's brother right before the man himself was abducted. The police had only found out after the bodies were discovered and the residence searched. In the second pair, it had been a recorded DVD. And the third, Lily Marks, had received a video clip on her phone mere moments before police found her car with its door open, phone and purse abandoned on the pavement.

The Unsub was learning, his skills advancing quickly. Hotch was glad he'd decided to bring Garcia on this one. If there were any breadcrumbs to be followed on the phone message, she'd find them, but, more importantly, if they found the Unsub's home and not his latest victims, she would be invaluable in going through his workstation.

But not tonight. Hotch had sent her to the motel with Reid before sundown. Neither of them had gotten much rest after the last case. They had one night, that much all of them were sure of. The Unsub might have been progressing, a smaller window between each pair, but he would still need time to find the next perfect pair. Two siblings who fit his needs.

The team had one night. Hotch was certain, though, that they wouldn't have two.

* * *

It had started to rain somewhere between entering the Hamilton home and exiting it. Emily Prentiss's eyes drifted up to the ominous clouds, and she knew the storm was just beginning. It had been too mild for winter when they'd arrived, but it appeared their luck with the weather would be soon be changing. She took a quick step down the stairs to the sidewalk, falling into place beside Agent Rossi, squinting through the raindrops.

Their feet splashed through the puddles as they slipped into the black sedan parked against the curb.

Agent Prentiss took a breath, wiping the water off her face before turning to Rossi. Her lips formed a tight line when she saw him shaking his head. "Want me to make the call?" she offered.

Rossi's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "You mean about our Agent _Fogerty_?"

"Too bad he doesn't exist." Prentiss had already pulled her phone free. She released a breath when her boss picked up. "Hotch, we've got a problem. The Hamilton family claims a man was here this morning, asking them questions about the case. He told them he was an F.B.I. agent."

She shot Rossi a quick glance when he snorted, half amused, half annoyed. "Agent Tom Fogerty… Wasn't that the rhythm guitarist for Creedence Clearwater Revival?"


	2. Two in the Hand

Dean leaned down, staring at his reflection in the wood framed television as if expecting something to jump out of the curved glass. He reached out, turning the knob, and a tunnel of light flashed across the screen, bringing it to life. His face lit up almost as quickly.

"Hey, check it out, Sammy," he called, "tube works."

Sam hummed a response, stepping around the sparsely furnished cabin. A single full-sized bed, extra cot folded against the wall, small sofa, breakfast table… He reached the kitchenette and tried the water. It gushed forward, surprisingly clear.

"Someone's been staying here. Often." Sam looked up, darkly, letting those words sink in for Dean.

His brother only shook his head. "Not here now, though," he commented. "And hopefully we won't be here long enough to see who's taken over the place."

Because they weren't exactly on speaking terms with a good chunk of the hunting population of late. And with Caleb unable to vouch for them from beyond the grave, meeting up with whoever had taken to keeping the cabin kept up might not be pleasant. Dean took a step back, sitting on the edge of the bed. It creaked with his weight, and he grinned, despite himself.

It was probably the same mattress he'd jumped on in their last stay, when he was chasing Sammy across the room. They'd been kids then, and it was one of the rare times when their dad was actually staying in town to take care of a job instead of dropping them off at a motel. Caleb hadn't minded them staying on the property, so long as the pantry and toiletries were restocked -- if memory served, Caleb, a fan of arms deals, had mostly done work of the non-hunting variety from the tiny cabin. Hell, Dean and Sam hadn't even known Caleb very well back then. He was just another name.

"Damn long time ago," Dean muttered with the thought. Longer still after how he'd spent his summer vacation. He held down the shudder that came with that realization.

Sam was staring his way, but to Dean's surprise, there was no deep chick-flick meaning to the look. He was simply avoiding looking at the opposite wall, where their two guests were currently secured to two table chairs. Dean didn't blame him. Neither of the brothers needed to voice how deep shit creek had gotten over the past hour.

"Dean." Sam let out a breath. "Dean, maybe we should drop this case."

"Think we kinda made a commitment here, Sam." Dean gestured to Penelope in particular. He cocked his head. "Unless you're just trying to get out of this because you think…"

"That we have bigger and badder concerns?" Sam scoffed. "Yeah, Dean. Actually, that's exactly it."

Dean shook his head, standing. "Bigger and badder than saving lives?"

"This morning, you were complaining that you didn't think this was our kind of case, Dean. And nothing at the Hamilton's really changed any of that." Sam hesitated, "Is there something you're seeing that I'm not? Some special reason for taking this one?"

"What, so suddenly an EMF reading is worth writing off? Bo -- " Dean paused, glancing at the Feds and deciding that not using Bobby Singer's real name was probably a good idea, "We wouldn't have been given this case if there wasn't something to it. And, you know as well as I do that the earlier murders showed a lot of the usual signs."

Dean saw it out of the corner of his eye, the sight movement against the wall.

It looked as if Dr. Reid had found his comment interesting. When the agent realized he had their attention, he shifted forward, as much as the rope around his chest would allow.

Dean jerked his thumb in his direction. "See, they don't even know about the earlier ones yet, Sam. We're ahead of them on this."

"Dean." The voice was so foreign that Dean almost didn't recognize it. His eyes shot to Spencer just as the younger man opened his mouth to speak again. "Dean, your brother is right." He chewed his lip for a split second before continuing, his wording careful. "You can leave this case to us. We can handle it -- _let_ us handle it. There's nothing here for you to hunt."

Dean blinked, confused for a moment before he realized what "good cop" here was getting at. _The play-along game. Great._ He took a step toward the agent, but Sam reached a hand out to block him. Dean shrugged it off.

"Alright then, Spencer, I suppose we should just pack up, hit the road and drop you two off in front of the police station with a letter of apology?" Dean smirked, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "Sorry, kid, not gonna happen." He took a breath, leaning forward. "And for your information, no you cannot _handle it_. The last FBI agent who thought he could ended up going down bloody, so forgive me if I'm not all that willing to leave it in your capable hands."

Wide, brown, guilt-inducing puppy dog eyes stared up at him. _Damn._ Dean wondered if Sam even realized that other humans possessed that same super-powered gaze. If Dean didn't know better, he'd say the agent was waiting to be hit. Which made Dean feel a little worse. The hunter straightened, softening his expression slightly, and clearing his throat.

"You two just sit tight and let us get this thing done. It'll be over before you can recite your handbook."

He turned his gaze to Penelope. The woman's face had paled, making her heavy eyeliner and near-purple lipstick stand out. Judging from the tremble of her chin, she was very close to shedding a few tears. _Shit. Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to mention a dead agent._ Somehow, two grown adults were making him feel like he'd just kicked a little girl's puppy. It wasn't exactly a _good_ feeling. He opened his mouth, ready to warn them that gags were in their future if Dr. Reid gave any more suggestions, and gave up before the words left his mouth.

Dean sighed, throwing his arms in the air in surrender and turned his back the hostages in defeat. "You know what, Sammy, next time, you give 'the talk'."

Sam was hiding his grin with one hand. The humor drifted, his brow wrinkling in its place, as if an idea had just struck him. "Penelope?" he asked. "What exactly do you do for the FBI?"

She gathered her courage, taking a shaky breath. "I'm a technical analyst for the BAU."

Dean looked over one shoulder. "What's the BAU?"

Sam stepped forward before she could answer, a little too quick in his reply. "Behavioral Analysis Unit. They're criminal profilers."

"Ah, Sammy, I'd forgotten about your little FBI phase. You kept trying to convince Dad he was chasing a serial killer. Was that before or after you decided you wanted to be a magician?"

Sam glared at him a split second before pushing the warning home. "Dean--" an unspoken ' _did you hear me, dude?'_ between one word and the next, "--profilers."

Dean shook his head, somehow managing to sound nonchalant. "Day just gets better and better. Step out for ice, end up with Computer Hacker Barbie and Clarice Starling. Wonderful."

Penelope's scoff was so low, he barely heard it. " _Barbie?"_

* * *

The night was brightened by the gray clouds looming above, holding back the heavy rain for a few moments. Already, though, a light mist was falling once more. Beggars couldn't be choosers, though; Derek was simply happy the downpour that had arrived while he was finishing up at the dumpsite was on temporary leave.

He hid the phone with his free hand, boots splashing through the puddles before he found sanctuary beneath the overhanging in front of the motel. One wide palm swiped the dampness off his dark brow and down his near-smooth head, before he turned his attention back to the conversation.

"Nope, Hotch. Like I said, nothing different than the previous dumps, except for the location. Forested area, right off a main highway. High ravine against the road." Derek paused, shaking his head. "What gets me is that no one has seen this guy in action. Unloading one body is hard enough, but two? And without a single shoe print left behind? Something's not adding up."

Lifting his chin, he read the room number off the closest door, walking toward it with a wide stride. The hum of Hotchner's voice could barely be heard over the rolling clouds above. "Yeah, well, be careful on the roads. Got a feeling the storm's not over yet."

Room 36 came into view. Derek closed his phone with a snap and pocketed it. He raked his knuckles over the blue door, listening for movement inside. "Hey, baby girl, it's Derek," he called.

No reply.

He rolled his eyes, a small grin at one corner of his mouth. If Garcia was on the same wavelength as him, she was probably hitting the shower right about now. He hoped she'd had the foresight to hand the other room keys off to Reid first, or the rest of the team was going to have a hell of a time getting into their quarters.

Derek took another step down. A sliver of light was spilling out between the mostly-closed curtains of Reid's room. Another tap. The agent hesitated before knocking harder.

Nothing.

"Damn," he muttered, turning back to face the parking lot. A split second later he remembered that Garcia and Reid had left the rest of the team with the rentals, getting a ride to the motel from Deputy Barnel.

That ruled out them hitting the town, not that he suspected either of them were in the mood to do anything more than sleep. Or that Attalla had anything to offer past sunset.

The manager's office was still open. Good. Maybe they were in the small lobby. At the very least, the manager might be able to get him another key.

Still, Derek didn't make a move toward the office. Something about this felt off. He glanced over his shoulder, staring at Garcia's door, a frown on his face. _What if…?_ Derek shook his head, stopping the paranoia before it could dig its claws deeper. _Check the office first, then worry,_ he told himself. Nevertheless, his hands dug back into his pocket, pulling free the cell phone.

Garcia's was the number he dialed most, so he pressed call without thinking. His steps toward the office were slow, deliberate, as if they were timed with each ring. Chewing his bottom lip, he waited for the voice message telling him to "bestow the keeper of all knowledge" his "offerings." Even that wasn't enough to loosen the hard frown on his face.

"Garcia, I'm at the motel." He hesitated, resisting the panicked question at the tip of his tongue. "Call me," he finished, instead, ending the call.

Reid's number was next.

_Ring._

Morgan was nearly at the end of the building, the office separated from the long wing of the L-shaped motel.

_Ring._

His brow wrinkled when he heard an echo of the ring in the distance. Pulling the phone away from his ear, he turned a full circle, eyes searching the barely lit parking lot. The rain was falling again, throwing the sound in every direction. It took him a moment to focus, to hear it again, to figure out where it was coming from. When he did, he realized his back was to it.

Derek came to a dead stop, staring at the small breezeway separating the front half of the building from the back. A vending machine that looked as if it hadn't been restocked in a decade, a Coke machine, and to the opposite side, a blue and white ice box. A plastic bucket had been abandoned on the wet sidewalk below, mostly melted chips floating in a tied-off plastic bag beside it.

And the ringing had stopped. Not before Derek had heard where its muted tone was coming from: the box itself.

Derek knew why the hairs on the back of his neck were standing, and he wished to God they'd end their salute. He had enough scenarios going through his head without his subconscious throwing up red flags. He licked his lip, reaching out. His distorted reflection stared back at him from the pitted silver doors of the box.

"No," he whispered, without meaning to.

No to _those_ thoughts. About what could be past those doors. What was waiting. Why two of the people he was most protective of in this world weren't answering their phones. No. Plain and simply put, _No_.

His fingers latched on to the pull. One yank and it slid open. The contents were shadowed, Derek's body blocking the bright light above him. But he could see clearly enough. No bodies. No blood.

Derek pushed a painful breath from his chest, but those pesky hairs were still standing on his neck. At the corner of the box, abandoned on the last bit of remaining ice, were two cell phones. He didn't need to pick them up to know who they belonged to. He caught his mouth with one hand, pinching his lips with his fingers. Thoughts flooded him, but only one formulated well enough for him to take action. He lifted his own phone again, waiting for an answer.

By, God, there better be an answer. If their wasn't, he'd…

" _Morgan?"_

"Hotch," Derek breathed, pushing the emotion down. "I think we've got a problem."

" _Morgan, what's wrong?"_

There was an urgency in Hotch's voice that Derek wanted to rebuke. After all, he wasn't sure. Not yet. Couldn't be, not until he checked their rooms. Was absolutely certain that…that they were gone.

"Hotch, I'm still at the motel, but Garcia and Reid…" Derek's eyes had drifted downward, following the spill of water from the broken-down ice machine. His feet had a mind of their own, taking him to the backside of the motel, where another line of rooms waited, no cars parked in front of them. But there, on the sidewalk a few rooms down from the vending area, was a single feather.

" _Morgan, are you still there? What's happening?"_

Derek took to one knee, reaching down for it. He rolled it between two fingers, vaguely aware of Hotch's voice in his ear. It was sunflower yellow. Short as his little finger. Fuzzy. Just like the ones on Penelope's hair barrette.

" _Has something happened to Garcia and Reid? Morgan, talk to me."_

Derek's voice was distant when it finally returned. "Hotch, they're missing," he said, as calmly as he could manage. His body grew rigid, nearly shaking. "Hotch, you...somebody needs to get here before I start kicking in doors."

And he closed the phone with a snap.

* * *

For all the training, for all the profiling, there was no sure-fire way of dealing with two people as delusional as the Winchesters. Especially when his hands were tied, literally, his gun taken, his friend in danger. But, Spencer remembered what Gideon and Hotch had taught him: the profile, that was his real weapon. The only one he currently had at his disposal.

Spencer really wished this was his first time in this situation. That the terror crawling over his skin like spider legs was completely new to him. But it wasn't, not in the least.

Without meaning to, he found himself staring at Penelope. If the brothers would just leave the room, the both of them, for just a moment, he could tell her that she'd be alright. That he'd get her out of this, somehow. Because that's what someone like Morgan or Hotch would say. What he wouldn't tell her, of course, were the details of the Winchesters' files. What they had, what Dean Winchester had, reportedly done to those women in St. Louis.

Spencer watched the younger brother, Sam, scoot forward from his makeshift seat on the cooler, holding the water bottle's straw closer to Garcia's mouth. She arched her neck, taking a hesitating sip before pulling away from him again. Sam was distracted, though, glancing over his shoulder, watching his brother lay the laptop and notes out on the small breakfast table, scooting a floor lamp closer to the work area. The cabin itself wasn't very well lit, especially now that night was fully upon them, but there was enough light to see by.

Spencer shared a glance with Penelope, hoping that she'd understand. Her lips opened again, and she let her eyes trail Sam's face.

"Thank you."

Sam startled, having forgotten the bottle in his hand. He lowered it, sitting it down on the floor beside her chair.

Spencer caught Penelope's eye again, nodding slightly. Sam. Sam was the one they needed to concentrate on.

"For the drink," Penelope added, biting her lip slightly.

"Um," Sam gave her an awkward smile, "yeah, you're welcome." And then glanced up to see Spencer staring him down. "How about you? We've got some more water, beer…might even have a bottle of apple juice left." He was already standing again, ready to pop the cooler's lid open, when Reid shook his head.

"No, thanks," he said, swallowing.

Sam nodded, standing in place. After a moment, he sunk back to the edge of the cooler, propping his elbows on his long legs and leaning forward. His dark eyes glanced up for a moment, silently calling his brother's attention, but he turned his focus back on Reid a split second later.

"Back at the motel," Sam began, "you recognized Dean."

Spencer noticed how innocently Sam had managed to not make that into a question, giving him no room to claim otherwise. Spencer's fingers fidgeted above his legs. He nodded, his adam's apple bouncing in tune with the movement.

"Yes," he said. "He was on the Most Wanted list. All FBI agents are required to know the names of those individuals."

"Was," Dean chirped, coming up beside the agent. " _Was_ on the Most Wanted. Kinda strange, though, you taking one glance at me and recognizing my face alone. Especially since I'm dead, according to you guys."

"You've died twice now," Spencer supplied.

As much as he knew he should be concentrating on the situation at hand, he couldn't help but let his mind flip through that information, digest it further. How had the Winchesters escaped alive? How had Dean faked his deaths, especially the one in St. Louis? There'd been coroner pictures of the body of the man standing in front of him. And, _why?_ Why fake your death so elaborately if you're not going to stay under the radar?

Dean's gaze narrowed slightly at the reply, more questions behind those green eyes. Spencer could see the paranoia there. He realized too late that he should have kept his mouth shut. If the brothers thought he was too suspicious, if they turned him into a villain in whatever current fantasy they were playing out, he'd be endangering himself and Penelope even further.

Spencer caught those piercing eyes again. "I have an eidetic memory," he continued. The explanation wasn't enough, he knew. He needed to make himself accessible, make the brothers believe he could be convinced of the truth behind their delusions. Playing along was the safest course of action at the moment. It might be enough to buy the team time… _Time for what?_ To find their two _dead_ abductors?

No, he had to have more confidence in his team. They'd found him in the past. They'd do it again.

"I read through your file a few years ago for a Special Agent named Victor Henricksen." Spencer watched for the spark of recognition in Dean's eye and wasn't disappointed. "Agent Henricksen was obsessed with your case after the incident in St. Louis and called me several times to look over his profile." Reid paused, weighing his options, and deciding to take the chance. One of the things Henricksen had insisted on was that the oldest had quite the ego; Reid could work with that. "I told him that I doubted he'd be able to track down you and your brother. You'd lost him before, and you'd do it again. Judging from what I've read, you're very skilled at what you do. It's impressive."

Dean snorted at that, breaking eye contact. "What exactly do you think we _do_?" he asked, his voice low.

Spencer stilled. He'd been expecting some sort of confirmation of vanity, over-confidence, arrogance. Instead, Dean's physical reaction, aversion, had almost been self-deprecating. "I know what Agent Henricksen thought you did. But he was wrong about you." Spencer straightened, leaning closer. "He thought you were just killing people, but there was more to it than that, right, Dean?"

"Listen." Dean took a breath, his eyes finally drifting up from the floor enough to meet the other man's gaze. "If this is the part where you start bad-mouthing Henricksen because you think it's what I want to hear, you can just stop where you are. Victor was a good guy. He made assumptions that any sane person would, and, yeah, he was wrong. But he was a _good_ man."

Spencer blinked, trying to hide his surprise. The reaction told him enough: at some point, Agent Henricksen had become part of Dean's delusions, but not as a monster. "Is he the agent who…died bloody?"

Aversion, again. Spencer felt the conversation slipping from his grasp.

Dean's brow wrinkled as he studied his own hands. "Yeah," he said, and stepped away, as if the notes he'd left on the table had suddenly become more interesting.

Spencer could feel Sam's eyes on him, glaring a hole through his skin. When he met the youngest Winchester's gaze, he was surprised at the anger there, restrained but present.

"Just because you read a file on us, doesn't mean you know us," Sam bit, standing. His looming height was unnerving, but whatever had been in his eyes disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. "If you change you mind about that drink, let me know."

He stepped away, joining his brother over a stack of papers. Reid and Garcia's eyes trailed him. Spencer released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. The profile was his best weapon. Unfortunately, it looked like it was no where near complete.

Penelope shook her head slightly at Spencer, obviously unnerved by the exchange. Reid had to remind himself that she didn't know the details. Didn't know what it was the Winchesters believed.

"That went well," she whispered.

Spencer echoed the sentiment.

* * *

The motel hadn't put money into new lighting in at least a decade, and yet it was, currently, standing out as a beacon in the night. Car lights, spotlights on the scene, flashlights: it was as bright as midday in the parking lot at the back of the building.

"Looks like half the town's here," Emily said, her eyes scanning the crowd.

Derek only nodded. He'd been a whirlwind for the past hour, but, finally, her words seemed to bring him to a stop. Dark eyes narrowed as the man studied the faces crowding the area, as if he'd noticed he wasn't alone in his search for the first time. He didn't speak, letting the moment of hesitation wash over him as quickly as it had arrived.

Emily frowned, knowing he was about to move again. She couldn't blame him for not being able to stand still, even if her own betraying legs currently felt like they were filled with lead instead of blood.

"Morgan," she began.

The sentiment at her lips didn't finish forming. Hotch and Rossi were approaching from the from vending area, their faces set. From their expressions alone, she knew they hadn't found anything they could use. Nevertheless, Morgan moved forward, his muscled mass almost threatening in the quick movement.

"Hotch, were all the guests accounted for? Were the police able to locate them?"

Rossi raised his brow slightly, sharing a look with Emily. She wasn't the only one who had noticed how wired Morgan was, his voice high, clipped. Aggressive, even if that aggression wasn't aimed toward the team.

Hotch's expression was stony; the constant leader. "Sheriff McKinney's men located the man staying in room ten at the local diner. The family from room thirty-seven arrived back just a few minutes ago. Two individuals, however, are missing. The hotel manager says they paid in cash for two evenings, but it looks as if they've already moved out of the room."

The light caught Derek's eyes, brightening them. "Names? Descriptions?"

The rapid-fire questions were almost barked out. Hotch didn't comment, though, turning the floor over to Rossi. The older agent nodded once in the direction of the rooms. One door was wide open, Sheriff McKinney standing at the frame with an elderly man holding a ring of keys.

"The hotel manager, Berry Pierce, wasn't as helpful as we could have hoped for," Rossi sighed, shaking his head when the team's attention came back to him. "He's elderly and, unfortunately, doesn't believe in wearing the glasses his doctor prescribed. The description he gave us was rather vague. Both were male Caucasians, tall, dark haired, and, I quote, 'youngish.'"

Emily raised a brow. "You're kidding? That's it?"

"Did he get a name for either of them?" Derek bit.

Rossi scratched his ear, not wanting to be the bearer of bad news. "Not one we can use. They were signed in under Mal and Angus Young. Apparently, Mr. Pierce isn't much of an AC/DC fan."

Morgan looked as if he were ready to punch something. Emily understood his frustration. They all did. But she pushed down the aggravation, concentrating on the case at hand. _The case…_ With all eyes peeled for Garcia and Reid, she'd almost forgotten why they were in this town in the first place.

"Should we assume that one or both of these men might be the unsub we're looking for?" she voiced.

Hotch's jaw twitched, but his expression wasn't one of surprise. He'd been considering the idea, Emily knew. He had to have been, because coincidences weren't things they ran into often.

"There's a possibility," he said. "Multiple unsubs would explain the organization of the disposal sites, the ease of the abductions. If that's the case, then our unsubs might be siblings themselves, or at the very least, related."

Derek ran a hand over his mouth, wiping away the dampness at the corner of his lips. "But Reid and Garcia don't fit. They're _not_ siblings. Neither of them even have siblings in the area. And they were taken together instead of apart. This doesn't feel planned." He winced, shaking his head. "Which means that, if the murderers and their abductors are one and the same, Garcia or Reid must have saw something that threatened the unsubs. Made them react."

Emily straightened, crossing her arms over her chest. "…Or they were recognized." At Rossi's puzzled expression she went on. "Not Reid or Garcia. I mean, one of them might have recognized the unsubs. If the unsubs picked up on it, they might have reacted with their most familiar course of action. Abduction."

The team grew quiet. Emily knew exactly what her words implied. Unplanned. A reaction to a threat. If that were the case, there was a good chance the unsubs had disposed of Reid and Garcia already.

Derek took a step back, walking away from the group without a word. Hotch stared after him.

"We'll find them," Hotch said. His frown deepened, contradicting the words. "We'll find them. If the unsubs did react in a panic, they'll have left something behind."

Rossi nodded. "And we'll find it."


	3. Waiting for the Sun

Above, pale gray clouds on a midnight blue backdrop danced without their usual music. A moment of silence between one heavenly wave "hello" and the next as they passed. But the world below was neither as quiet nor as peaceful as the sky.

Glass shattered, the exclamation mark on the final scream enough to still the lone opossum dining at the bottom of the aluminum trash barrel.

The woman who stormed out was young, too young to be the child's mother. Her make-up was a charcoal smear beneath the tangled mass of bottle blond and hairspray, her fingers strained around an overfilled bag spewing skirts too short for the season and lace too synthetic to be undergarments.

A shoe dropped free, clattering against the wooden planks. She didn't turn back for it.

The child stepped off of the stairs, out of her way before she could storm down, trip over his small, hunched form. She was blind to him, either purposely or because rage made her so. By the light of the moon, the smaller form took shape: a boy, too short and too quiet for his nine years.

The woman held no interest for Ricky. The child on the other hand was, in a word, perfect.

There was not a soul inside the house aside from the father, and yet the old man's gravelly voice could be heard, calling out a name. Anger wrapped in that single word.

The child looked over his shoulder, gaze drawn to the slammed door, fear crossing his face for a split second before numb indifference took its place. He took a step back, crouching down beside the stairs to the porch, hiding there while fading red taillights brightening the old country road.

The woman gone. The father too lazy to follow.

Ricky had lowered himself to the boy's height, crouched low on the damp earth, but he was too far away to be seen or heard by the child. A crooked smile on his face, Ricky leaned forward, his lean silhouette breaking free of the bushes.

"Perfect, isn't he?"

Ricky nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking. You're never wrong, big brother."

He could feel Glenn kneeling beside him, a shade made of ice touching his arm. The contact with his sibling comforted him, left him caressing his own fists like a thief in a goldmine. His fingertips brushed the ring on his finger and the grin became less maniacal, almost gentle. "Someone needs to be there for him," Ricky agreed. His body trembled slightly. "When?"

Glenn seemed to fall backwards, disappearing both from view and from existence in an instant. Ricky smiled when he saw his big brother's form further away, pale as the moonshine passing through him, behind the cowering child. The unknowing child.

Glenn looked as he had in death, a flannel over a loose shirt, jeans. Blood. Too much of it. But it had lost its color, appearing to be black and gray shadows on the colorless flesh of his forehead. And Glenn was young, too, younger than Ricky now. Or, at least, he looked it.

Head cocked in study, Glenn's lips moved, though no sound came out. Ricky knew, though, what it was he mouthed to the child: "Soon."

* * *

Sam wasn't a fan of taking hostages for precisely the same reason he didn't enjoy babysitting. Voluntary responsibility over another human's life? Hunting was about stopping monsters and saving people, as his brother had drilled into his head a number of times. _Not_ about endangering them. And not about providing supervised bathroom breaks.

Not that he was actually _supervising_. Sam felt heat in his cheeks at the mere thought. Which was odd in itself. As much as Dean liked to poke fun, he hadn't been "shy Sammy" in a long time. The flush from the other side of the door startled him into awareness, his shoulders lifting off of the door before the knob twisted.

Penelope peeked out, a strained, nervous grin crossing her face for a split second. Most the makeup had been washed from her skin, though a black cherry stain on her lips remained.

"All done," she announced.

Her blond hair was hanging loose around her round-cheeked face, a thin green-dyed highlight curling against her neck, the fuzzy barrette abandoned somewhere. Sam leaned over her, seeing the elastic on the edge of the sink. He sighed, putting his hand out, beckoning for her to relinquish her prize.

Penelope frowned, hand in the figurative candy jar, and dropped a bobby pin onto his palm.

Sam stood firm. "The rest of them."

She sighed, reaching up to yank two more off the bra strap she'd secured them to. Sam coughed down his chuckle at her pout when she relinquished the hair accessories.

"Do you even know how to pick a lock?"

She raised a plucked brow. "Can't be that hard."

"That's a no."

Penelope shrugged, the voice of defeat. "I was just planning to poke you really hard."

"Thanks for the heads up." Sam smirked, tilting his head in the direction of the main room. Penelope took the hint, walking in front of him.

Sam was surprised to see that his brother had untied their other guest as well. Meaning both of their "hostages" were currently unsecured. A dangerous move. An un-Dean-like move. Sam huffed, aggravated by the barely contained smile on his brother's face. Because, _somehow_ , Dean found something about this situation damned funny.

Sam was not as amused.

The older Winchester was sitting on a stool beside the lone bed, a fake seriousness to his wrinkled brow as he posed an important question to the FBI agent laying flat backed on the mattress like a psych patient on a sofa.

"So _up_?" Dean asked, yanking Dr. Reid's arm skyward to indicate the iron railed head of the bed. "Or _down_?" Dean dropped the lanky arm down beside the mattresses, where the skeletal bed frame was exposed. "Up or down, man? Not rocket science. Doesn't take a genius. _Though_ , since you are one, this should be an easier decision."

Reid blinked, confused by the movement and opened his mouth to speak. Dean interrupted him.

"Up?"

It took all of Sam's strength not to slap his own palm against his forehead. Or, more likely, against the back of Dean's head. _God, I shouldn't have let Dean have dibs on the extra coffee this afternoon._ Sam reached out, gently taking hold of Penelope's arm to keep her from getting too close to her fellow agent.

"Down?"

Sam had a feeling Dean had already asked this question. Multiple times if the exhausted expression on Spencer's face was any indication, but it seemed to serve its purpose of keeping the guy distracted. The young agent tilted his head up and opened his mouth once more, ready to reply when Dean glanced Sam and jerked Spencer's arm up as if he were a Raggedy Anne doll, cuffing him to the pole on the head board. The momentum pushed Reid's head back down onto the pillow. One leg rebelled, laying sprawled off the side of the mattress.

"Up it is," Dean chirped. At Spencer's frown, he nodded his head and grabbed the guy's foot, tossing it against the other. "You're a back sleeper. Trust me."

Sam rolled his eyes, deciding to let his brother's inappropriately good mood go unchecked. "So, I'm guessing they're getting the bed?"

Dean moved to the foot of the bed, jerking Reid's shoes off with a swift move, his eyes still on his brother. But Sam's had moved to the agent, noticing the split second of panic on the man's face at the action. Sam raised a confused brow, not wanting to consider what the expression was about, and waited for Dean's reply.

"Sorry, Princess," Dean smirked. "Hope it doesn't interfere with your beauty sleep."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam couldn't help the smile across his face, happy when it was reflected in Dean's eyes. He'd had to go without that _endearment_ for too long. And for a while, he'd thought he'd never hear it again. Sam was vaguely aware of the odd looks he and his brother were currently receiving, but didn't mind. Their two hostages already thought the Winchesters were murderous psychopaths. Being reputed potty mouths was the least of their problems.

Dean clapped his hands once, ending the moment. "Unless," his eyes drifted to Penelope. He wisely chose not to wiggle his eyebrow suggestively. "Unless Penny isn't comfortable with laying so close to her co-worker. If Spencer here is a little grabby, you could take the cot and we could duct tape the good doctor to the sofa…"

"No," Penelope interrupted. She blinked, as if flustered by the choice. Apparently, kidnapping wasn't supposed to come with options. "Um, thank you, the bed is fine."

"Settled then," he shot Sam a look, "dibs on the cot."

Sam didn't have to glance up to know the cot was closest to the front door. And also appeared to be older than either of the Winchesters. "Dean…"

Deans waggled a finger to stop him. "Your freakishly long legs are just going to have to cramp up on the sofa, Samsquatch. Now, tuck Penelope in already." He gave her a quick wink. "And don't let her talk you into anything I wouldn't do."

Sam ignored the statement. "There's a little research I wanted to do before bed."

Dean looked up. "No, Sammy." The mirth in his voice disappeared. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out an ache that seemed constant these days. "We're not going to have much time before their friends get a description on us. Better get in all the rest we can."

_Before we've got to run._

Sam grimaced. Demons and angels were bad enough. Now the FBI would be on their case. Again. Fake deaths just didn't last as long as they used to. Much like real ones.

* * *

The bed was uncomfortable. Morgan really hadn't expected any different. He leaned his head back, missing the stack of pillows and hitting the wall. Heavy lids wanted to stay down, but he cracked his neck, keeping his gaze wide, watching the small motel room as if something might appear from one of the shadowed corners.

He'd searched it. Thoroughly. And, yet, her, Garcia's, largest bag remained untouched, still zipped up from the flight down. She'd be angry if he went through her things, if he lost one single earring.

Because she would be back. She would. And, she'd want to wear one of her favorite pairs.

"Miss you, baby girl," he said.

This hadn't been his first stop either. Two hours ago, he'd been in Reid's room, sitting back in the very same position. As if the abductors had left some message behind. But, they hadn't. Garcia and Reid hadn't had the time to unpack their shower items or settle in, so, in all likelihood, the abductors had never even seen the inside of the rooms.

Derek had went to them, nevertheless, after everyone had forced themselves to retire for the evening.

The knock at the door was faint, barely a tap, but it jerked him to awareness.

"Morgan?" The call matched the knock, but the sound was enough for him to make out the owner. Prentiss.

He shook his head, ashamed that he had thought, even for an instance, that it might be someone other than his accounted-for teammates. Morgan opened the door for her, stared out at the chill night. Prentiss didn't so much ask for an invitation as push her way in, rubbing the cold out of her arms.

"Thought you might be here," she said.

Morgan straightened. "Did something happen? Hotch didn't call…"

She shook her head, stopping him before he could get his hopes up. "Nothing like that." Emily stared at the open space, her eyes stopping on the wrinkled bed linen where he'd been propped. "I woke up a little early," she excused, leaving out the 'few hours' part. "Looks like you never woke up at all."

"I got some sleep," he defended.

Her frown said she didn't believe a word of it. With a shake of her head, she gestured for him to take a seat on the edge of the bed with her. The mattresses grunted at the give, but silence owned the room in seconds.

"Know why you're here?" Emily asked.

Morgan snorted, shaking his head. "As in, why I'm here on earth? Haven't the foggiest."

Emily cast him a glare. "In this room." She paused, weighing her options, before she continued. "Before I went to bed, Rossi said you were in Reid's room. Do you know why you've spent the night in their rooms?"

Derek wasn't in the mood to answer, but his mouth opened. "Studying the victims," he said, nearly at a whisper, "like I would in any other case."

She shook her head but didn't contradict him. "They aren't any other victims, though."

"Emily?"

Prentiss turned, watching his hunched form with wide, wet eyes. "Yes?"

Derek clasped his hands together, letting them hang down between his knees. "Garcia," he said, "Garcia's not trained for this." He licked day old coffee off his bottom lip, not letting his gaze raise. "And we know what these unsubs do to them, to the people they take. We've seen the damn videos, the photographs. We know." He turned to face her. "I wish we didn't. Know."

Emily reached out, gripping his shoulder. "Derek, Reid's been here before. He'll take care of Penelope. I'm trusting in that. In him. You need to do the same."

Morgan nodded, but his eyes had darkened slightly, emotion making them shine in the faint light. "Sure, the kid knows what to do. He'll take care of her." He raised his hands higher, as if in prayer. "For as long as he can."

* * *

Reid had a hard time staying asleep, and he doubted it had much to do with the cuff holding his hand above his head. He'd drifted in and out, craning his head to see that Penelope was having no such problems, no doubt emotionally exhausted by the events, her head angled towards him, hair spilled out as if to reach him. She'd placed her free hand over his. Though he usually found himself uncomfortable with physical contact, the warm comfort was one he appreciated, even if it had been done subconsciously.

Each time he had stirred and turned to check on her, his second move had been to twist his head toward the opposite wall. Dean and Sam had been awake sometime longer than they'd expected, contrary to what the oldest brother had stated. Finally, though, Sam had disappeared onto the sofa, his socked feet hanging off one end, his brown hair spilling over the opposite arm. Dean had laid back on the ancient cot, each movement sending a loud metal whine. He'd grown still, fully clothed, a hand on his stomach, another tucked behind his head. Dean's eyes, though, had been open each time Reid had glanced his way, as if the man were in deep thought.

But, now, it appeared as if Dean Winchester was fully asleep, rolled out of his stiff position and onto his side, facing the bed.

A soft noise disturbed the silence of the room.

Reid raised a brow, surprised that it had been a short gasp from the older brother. He was having a dream. If the sheen of sweat on his brow, the clenching fingers over his blanket, weren't indication of a nightmare, then the grimace on his face surely was. By moonlight, his quiet struggle with his sleep made Dean Winchester appear almost childlike. Innocent.

But Dean Winchester wasn't innocent. Reid knew that, though he wasn't exactly sure what one could consider the two brothers. _Sick._ Sick was the word hospitals and defenders would use. Deranged would be the word the public would label them with. Delusional is what Spencer Reid had chosen.

Spencer had never been quite so thrown by the background of an unsub. Usually, a file was helpful, but, obviously, Agent Henricksen's wasn't doing much good. Perhaps that was what was throwing him off. He needed to sort through what he knew, throw out what was conjecture on Henricksen's part, put together what he had gathered over the hours with the brothers.

And he had to do it fast.

The Winchesters might be delusional, but the murders committed around Attalla were the work of a serial. Which meant, the need to kill wouldn't be sated by a change in their fantasies.

Dean moved slightly, his head ducking down, chin pressed into his chest as if to protect himself. The muscles of his face tensed.

The call was hoarse, quieter than a whisper. Reid wouldn't have heard it at all if he hadn't been watching the man's lips form the choked name.

"No, Sammy…"

Reid heard the creak that followed, raising his head slightly to see that he wasn't the only one awake. Sam was propped up on the arm of the sofa, watching his brother with a hollow expression. Not a single emotion left naked on his face.

The small audience jumped when Dean jerked in his sleep, his eyes wide, a pant at his lips. Reid laid back, trying to close his eyes enough to look as if he hadn't been watching, but Sam remained exactly as he was, unashamed of his spying.

Dean locked eyes on his brother, guilt leaving his face paler.

Reid wasn't quite sure what that expression indicated, and his own brow knitted in confusion. Reid caught the answer before it could leave his mouth, swallowing down the need to tell his theory on the matter. Because the team wasn't there to hear it and the Winchesters wouldn't like it very much.

Guilt. That was important. A missing piece.

Guilt because he was killing siblings? Punishing others because the two siblings he really wanted to hurt… Every bit of evidence on the Winchesters suggested that Dean was highly protective of his little brother. Even an uncontrollable urge to kill might not allow him to harm Sam, at least not at first, but, if that was what Dean wanted, to murder his little brother… That would explain why he was taking out his frustrations on siblings. But it didn't explain why he killed the older sibling as well.

_Unless the older sibling represents Dean himself,_ Reid mused.

Perhaps Dean was breaking from his father's instilled delusions. Perhaps he was beginning to recognized what he and his brother were actually doing. To innocent people. Reid sucked in a quick breath, holding back a tremble at the thought. If he was correct, if Dean was that self-destructive, there would be no reasoning with him. A man ready to kill himself, to kill the very person he was raised to save, was beyond dangerous, beyond predictable, especially when one didn't know which delusions he was still acting out and which had already crumbled away, out of his reality.

Spencer wove his fingers through Penelope's, gripping on to her.

"Want to talk about it?" Sam asked.

Dean snorted, shrugging off the question. "It's nothing, Sammy."

"Nothing?" Sam's jaw tightened. "Sure," the man bit. He rolled back onto the sofa, pounding down his pillow with one arm in frustration.

Dean had already turned his attention from his brother, staring at the bed. Spencer opened his eyes fully, knowing he'd lost the facade. He expected Dean to be angry at the invasion of privacy, but only the guilt remained in his eyes.

There was something else there, too. _Shame._ It made Spencer nauseous.

"Sorry I woke you, buddy," Dean whispered, his voice hoarse again. "Go back to sleep."

Reid somehow doubted that was going to happen any time soon, not with a dozen new questions filling his mind. When he opened his eyes again, daring to look out, Dean Winchester was slipping out the front door, a leather jacket over his shoulders.


	4. Following the Breadcrumbs

Dreams could hurt. They always did.

" _Glenn?"_

_Ricky swallowed down a whimper, holding his arm with one small, sweaty hand. Gina liked to pinch him there, in the crook of his elbow, liked to leave bruises behind. It made her chuckle, made her cigarette breath swirl over his face. But the pinches… the pinches always ended when Glenn stepped in. When Glenn made her pay attention to him instead. So, when Ricky stared out at the blackened room, looking for some sign of movement in his brother's bed, he didn't whimper in fear for himself. He whimpered in fear of who might be rustling those tea-stained sheets._

" _Glenn?"_

_Ricky was ten. Ten was old enough. Ten was plenty old enough for him to take a few pinches without being a cry-baby. Glenn had taken it. Gina, too, from Dad. Ricky wanted to tell his brother as much, tell him that he didn't need protecting anymore. The words always bubbled to the surface before they broke into little fragments._

" _Just me, Ricky." His brother's voice was distant, but it was enough to comfort Ricky._

" _Was that Gina?"_

_Glenn rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. He was older, filled out, his teenage growth spurts beginning at long last. One bare arm was thrown over his forehead. Ricky realized that one arm was wider than both of his. So wide it should have been able to throw off Gina nowadays._

" _Gina's a bitch," Glenn replied. His eyes didn't move from the shadows. They were cold, those orbs, stony as the rest of his face. Emotionless._

_Ricky watched his brother. "At school," Ricky said, "this girl, her name's Marcy, she says she has a big sister. But, her big sister buys her things, takes her shopping. She's nice. Not all sisters are like Gina."_

_Glenn sat up, his body tense. "Ricky, tell me you didn't say anything."_

_Ricky shook his head so quickly it made him dizzy. "No, Glenn. I'd never tell."_

_His big brother was sated by the answer. Glenn let out a breath, licking his lips. "Ricky?" he said, catching the boy's attention again. "Ricky, big sisters are supposed to protect you."_

" _You protect me, Glenn."_

_The statement hung in the air. The moment of silence between the two was not silent at all. In the dark, through the walls, they could hear the television on, abandoned on a sports recap. Daddy was yelling something. At Gina._

_Shouting._

_Snapping._

_Screaming. Right before it went quiet. Real quiet. Footsteps passing in the hall. Gina calming Daddy down, like she always did. Like that would make it better._

_Glenn and Ricky ignored the sounds, hearing only their own breathing on opposite sides of the room._

_Glenn rolled over onto his side. "I wish Gina would die."_

" _Me, too." Ricky liked to pretend it was so. That Gina and Daddy were gone. That it was just the two of them, real brothers. No more too loud moments, no more too quiet moments. "I wish they both were."_

" _I'm gonna kill her one day."_

" _Promise?"_

Ricky woke, Glenn's reply still echoing through is ears: _"I promise."_

He wiped the sweat off his brow and onto the pillowcase, pushing himself up off of his bedding. It was chilly, but not cold enough for the thick blanket draped over him. He wished he'd slept on it instead. The floor wasn't comfortable, not in the least. But Glenn had said this was the best place for them, the safest place. And Ricky trusted Glenn.

"Please."

The word was far away. It made Ricky wince, remember tea-stained sheets. It took him a moment to realize that the childish voice belonged to the little boy in the other room, in the cage.

The boy had no reason to beg, no reason to cry. But, he hadn't shut up, not since Ricky had pushed him into his new home.

"I'll give you a reason to cry," Ricky whispered. It was one of his father's favorite lines. He licked his lips, pleased with how the words sounded coming from his own mouth.

"Did you sleep well?" Glenn asked.

His brother's form appeared a few feet away, blinking in and out of existence a few times before it became solid. Cold, pale, but undeniably solid. To the eye. Ricky smiled up at him, nodding.

"Good." Glenn echoed the expression, though it never met his dead, foggy eyes. He reached down, brushing the hair off of Ricky's sweaty forehead. The caress was gentle, a reminder of what it was all for. Their purpose. Their drive. "We should get the room ready for Thomas."

Yes, Thomas. Ricky remembered the boy's name now. Little Thomas, the youngest one so far, the youngest of the youngest. They'd have to be careful not to break him too soon, before his big brother learned his lesson.

"And, Ricky?" Glenn took a step forward. His curling lips had become a straight line but something remained, some hint of glee in his gaze. "Thanks for this."

"Anything for you, big brother."

* * *

Sam stared down at his cell phone, his thumb gliding over the numbers but never quite pressing them. He swiped his chin, chewed his bottom lip, but it was a pair of eyes on his back that helped him decide against placing the call. He pocketed the phone, looking over his shoulder to where he'd moved the agent.

The dawn light spilled across the floor, overly bright from a thin layer of frost covering the world outside. Past it, in the shadows closest to the electric heater, Dr. Spencer Reid was once more tied to the wooden chair. This time, though, the chair beside him was empty, Penelope still lounged out on the bed under a pile of blankets, one arm stretched out above her.

Sam figured she'd be asleep for a few more hours, and Dean was still out, no doubt cruising around to clear his head. There was enough time, plenty, for him to step outside onto the front porch, call Ruby back _. If_ it wasn't for the FBI agent watching him as if he'd grown two heads. And then, _somehow_ , the guy would bring it up in front Dean. And Sam would get _that_ look.

No. Later. He'd call her later. When they were done with this town and ready to get back to the real job.

"Sam?" Reid called, his voice soft, mindful of the woman on the bed. "Sam, could I have some water?"

Sam felt like an idiot. Of course he was thirsty - Sam had completely forgotten that the agent hadn't had a drink all night. He walked to the cooler, grabbing a fresh bottle and pulling the box closer to the chair so that he could perch on its hardtop.

"Dean'll bring us some breakfast," Sam assured him, holding the bottle to the agent's mouth. "Hope you like bad coffee and grease."

Reid took a deep drink before nodding. Sam pulled it away, sitting it down at his feet.

"Thanks for not gagging us, Sam."

Sam stared at the man a moment, unable to stop the small smile on his mouth from forming. If Sam had ever thought he and Dean were too unconvincing as fake FBI agents, those doubts were now vanquished. Awkward, lanky, and at least as young as Sam, Spencer Reid simply didn't look the part.

"No problem," Sam replied, wiping condensation off on his jeans. "Listen," he cleared his throat, "you won't have to be here much longer, alright. If you just sit tight, you'll be fine, Spencer, you and Penelope both. I know you probably don't believe that, but it's true."

"It's not that I don't believe you," Spencer replied, cocking his head slightly, "I, well, I just -- I'm not sure that you'll have any say in whether we'll be released."

Sam blinked. "What do you mean by that?"

Spencer's brown gaze was wide, imploring, as if he were the one asking a question. "Your brother might not want to release us." Before Sam could open his mouth, Reid continued. "I know that Dean says he will, but, Sam, your brother does things without you sometimes, doesn't he? Maybe when you're not around. Surely, he doesn't tell you everything he's planning?"

Sam bit down a bitter smile, deciding not to tackle that directly. This guy didn't need to know the secrets he and Dean kept from one another. "Trust me, Dean's not planning on hurting either of you."

"But --" Reid took a breath, starting over. "Sometimes, Dean does hurt people, doesn't he?"

Sam almost wanted to answer: "Sometimes I do, too." But he knew how that would sound, how civilians would misinterpret what the two of them had to do on a regular basis.

"I know what you're doing, Spencer. You need to stop before you go too far," Sam replied.

Reid opened his mouth, but Sam shook his head, cutting him off.

There was something sad and likable about the agent's crooked frown and wet stare. And Sam really wanted to like the guy. He could already tell that his brother had a soft spot for their supposed "hostages". Dean was more lax than he should ever be around them. But, Sam couldn't be that way. One of them had to keep control, and Sam decided it was probably going to be his place.

He wasn't sure how Dean could ignore the obvious, but Sam was far too aware. Too completely aware that Spencer Reid was a trained manipulator. That there was no way the agent would believe a word out of his mouth. That Reid and the tech girl believed without a doubt that his brother was bat shit crazy and homicidal.

"Let me guess," Sam said, his smile mocking, eyes downcast, "your plan is to thank me until I consider the two of us buddies. Then you'll start to talk to me about my dear, disturbed brother, explain to me how I'm normal Joe-Victim who's been wrapped up in my family's delusions all my life. How I tried to escape them by going to Stanford, but was pulled back into this way of living by Dean. How I can still get out and save myself -- if only I release you and Penelope and turn Dean over to the police." Sam eyes were slightly darker when they lifted. "How am I doing, Dr. Reid? Am I missing anything?"

Spencer swallowed. "No," he replied, after a long pause. "I'm aware of your background, your previous arrests. You have too much experience with this type of situation for me to attempt to convince you to turn on Dean."

"Then what's your end game?" Sam snapped. "I know you have one. You're a profiler."

Spencer pushed his back against the chair, blinking up at the other man. "What was your brother dreaming about this morning?"

Reid must have noticed the change in Sam's expression because his changed as well. The anxiety left his brow, leaving his face softer, pitying.

"Something changed recently."

Sam was almost surprised by the confidence in the other man's voice. The sureness. It didn't match the timid personality he was becoming used to. Sam's gaze narrowed, his lips a narrow, straight line. Yet, he couldn't force an answer, an explanation.

Reid's voice was nearly a whisper when he leaned forward. "What's wrong with Dean, Sam?"

_He's not strong anymore. He left something behind._ Sam hated that voice, feeding him answers. He ignored it, letting his frustration out on the agent instead. "None of your damn business, Dr. Reid," he replied. There was a forced, dangerous calm to his voice. Sam stood, made to turn, and looked back. "Mention it again, and I _will_ gag you."

* * *

"Latest news has gone national," J.J. announced, sitting on the edge of the desk, her arms crossed over her chest.

Hotch didn't ask for the specifics. He knew she was referring to Thomas Gravitt's abduction. It was amazing how quickly news could travel, but the media had been eyeing the small town closely since the second pair of bodies was found, waiting for the next lead. The third pair of abductions had only managed to stay quiet because the youngest hadn't been close to his immediate family, a rebellious young man, and he'd, unfortunately, not been reported missing in time for word to reach his sister.

"I managed to convince my contacts to leave out details on the status of the sibling." J.J.'s heavy stare bluntly announced that those contacts wouldn't keep quiet long. She went on, "Any word from Prentiss yet?"

"Michael Gravitt is in her custody," Hotch replied. They'd found Thomas's big brother one county over, staying at a friend's house. He'd reportedly had a fight with his father the previous night and hitched a ride. A dangerous move for a twelve-year-old, but perhaps one that had saved him from the abductor who took his little brother. "She's questioning him and the friend's family right now. We'll have the boy moved here when she's done."

J.J. shook her head, releasing a breath. "Could protecting Michael put Thomas in more danger?"

"Possibly," Hotch replied. He could read her expression well. It was the same one he had when he allowed himself to think about his son while on a case. "It depends on how long it takes for the unsubs to realize we have him in our custody. When they realize their needs can't be met, they may decide to dispose of Thomas early."

J.J. stood, stepping up to the board. "Thomas is younger than the others have been. Nine. Nine-years-old." She turned her back to Hotch, her shoulders tight. "Hotch ... Sometimes this job really sucks." When she moved back into his line of sight, her eyes were a little redder. "I don't get it. Why'd they abduct again so soon? They took Reid and Garcia yesterday afternoon and moved by evening? And they probably chose Thomas, right?"

Controlling one victim was hard enough. Three… There was a better possibility that the abductors had disposed for their last two before beginning again. Hotch hated himself for thinking it, and he certainly wasn't going to share the thought with J.J. Not until he had a reason to do so.

"We assumed the unsubs were locals, but they were staying at a motel," Hotch voiced, instead. His brow wrinkled. His own words had surprised him. "Local," he repeated, glancing the board. "Familiar with the area, with the dump sites, the abduction sites. The people. The unsubs have a large location, separate from a permanent living quarters. Somewhere they take their victims. A location that feels secure, far from neighbors."

J.J. cocked a brow. She'd heard as much before, during the preliminary profile, but it seemed more relevant at the moment. "Maybe the guys at the hotel weren't the abductors?"

"Possibly." But he sounded doubtful. He reached up, resting his fist against mouth while he mused it over. Two brothers, young, who'd paid for a room and disappeared before they could stay. At approximately the same time his team members were abducted.

There was something he was missing, he could feel it. "Either the two motel visitors were unrelated to the previous abductions or the unsubs had already planned to abduct someone from the FBI. The Emperor's Inn is the only motel remotely close to town. It would be a good assumption that we'd be staying there. A town this small, gossip would have announced our arrival before the media."

J.J. eyes widened as she followed his train of thought. "If it was planned…"

There was a greater chance that Garcia and Reid were still alive, not dumped in a ditch somewhere. Hotch didn't voice the rest of the statement though. Or that there was another possibility entirely. That, as completely unlikely as it was, Garcia and Reid's disappearance might have nothing to do with the other murders.

"We need to run this by Morgan," J.J. muttered. "Is he still with Rossi?"

Hotch nodded. "At the motel again."

They'd left less than an hour ago, checking out the Gravitt home before returning. Hotch wasn't honestly sure that Derek would leave peacefully if ordered away from the motel without a solid lead.

Hotch nodded. "I'll call."

* * *

Dean nearly flew through the front door, tossed the grease-speckled brown bag onto the table, and firmly decided he wasn't going to ask what the hell had happened while he was out. And, judging from the stare-down between Spencer and Sam, Dean was certain _something_ had happened. But, there wasn't time for that, not at the moment.

"Turn on the TV," he barked.

Sam didn't question him, switching the box on. It was already on the local channel -- actually, Dean wasn't sure that the ancient bunny ears picked up more than the local channel -- and the news broadcaster was showing an enlarged yearbook picture of a child, a boy.

"Heard it on the radio on my way here," Dean explained, a deep frown set on his face.

Dean glanced the rest of the room, noticing what he'd interrupted. Sam was in the middle of tying Penelope to her chair. She was half secured, her upper arms, shoulders held against the back of the chair, hands still free from the cuffs, but she didn't make a move, glasses-clad eyes focused on the screen instead.

Dean moved to the bag he'd tossed. "A kid was taken some time last night. Tommy Gravitt. He was discovered missing after his dad got spooked by, get this, an 'electrical disturbance' in his house. I asked the guy at the gas station about the Gravitts. Said he knew them personally. Tommy's got a big brother, but the news isn't mentioning him. Hell, I haven't even heard his name brought up."

Sam looked over his shoulder, his brow wrinkled. "Why not?"

Dean shrugged. "Maybe 'cause the other kid hasn't been kidnapped yet? Don't know. We need to find him, though, make sure he's safe. Because he's next in the pattern."

Sam shot Reid a look. "I'm sure the FBI are ahead of you on that, Dean."

Dean shook his head, looking at the kid on the television. Round cheeked and dressed in a concert tee that was twice his size. He reminded Dean of Ben a little. Lisa's Ben. Hell if he would leave the cops to protect a kid from the supernatural. "Yeah, maybe, but they're probably expecting their big bad wolf to be a human. I somehow doubt they're putting him a circle of salt."

"If it's a ghost," Sam supplied.

"If it's _just_ a ghost," Dean corrected, frowning at the implication. "Told you there was a job here, Sammy. Might not be a spirit. This thing's showing up on EMF, but he's traveling way more than Casper should."

Sam sighed. "Unless the spirit's attached to something that's moving," he replied. Then nodded, consenting. Dean recognized that he'd won and smirked.

After a moment, Sam crossed the room, catching Dean by the sleeve. "Actually, we could use this."

That wiped the smirk off of Dean's face. "So help me, if you say we use that kid for bait, I'll kick your ass."

"Not directly," Sam replied, wincing before he leaned forward in appeal. "Hear me out, Dean. If the cops already have the kid, then we're not going to be able to get to him, but we can keep an eye out. Catch anything that tries to get too close. In the meantime though, another abduction means that the Feds won't be paying as much attention to…"

"Snoops," Dean supplied. "Another kid - plus a few of their own - missing, and they're probably running around like chickens with their heads cut off. We might finally get to make a move on the coroner's office without getting busted."

"Actually, I was thinking of hitting up the county records." Sam gave the room a forlorn expression. "Because I'm not exactly getting wi-fi out here."

Dean snorted when he saw Penelope perk-up from her corner of the room at the mention. The amusement left him though when his eyes drifted over to Reid, who was studying him with more intensity than a fat kid watching fudge harden. Since he somehow doubted the agent felt _that_ way about him, Dean cocked a brow. Then it hit him.

_Shit._

Dean had been a second away from mentioning his own alibi to the two when he'd realized how early he'd slipped out of the cabin. He'd needed a breath of fresh air. He'd needed a place to shut his eyes where he wouldn't have an audience. The Impala had done just fine. Unfortunately, he was also out of view at the exact time Thomas went missing.

Spencer and Penelope weren't going to believe he and Sam weren't behind the other abductions any time soon.

Dean shook his head, pissed at himself -- _wrong damn place, wrong damn time_ \-- and picked up the heavy bag cooling on the table. "Who's up for some breakfast?"

* * *

Morgan could feel Rossi's eyes on his back, but the older man didn't voice whatever concerns were on the tip of his tongue. Instead, he stood back a few feet, nursing a paper cup brim-filled with coffee, black. Morgan was aggravated. Even though he knew the other agent had done nothing, even though Derek knew the emotion boiling up inside him wasn't meant to be aimed in Dave's direction.

"I know," Morgan snapped, standing up from where he'd been crouched in front of the ice machine. He shook his head, pursing his lips. "I know, I should be back at the station, looking into the kid."

Rossi raised a thick brow, pulling the cup from his lips. "Not necessarily," he finally answered.

The response surprised Morgan. He gave the man a questioning glance. They'd spent a good chunk of the morning being briefed on the Thomas Gravitt abduction, and Morgan knew what the stats said, that abducted children didn't have long. They were on a tight timeline, if, _if_ Thomas was to be found alive.

Rossi shrugged, as if he could hear the other agent's thoughts. "Derek," he began, "what would you do if this wasn't Garcia and Reid. If these were just two other victims."

The tenseness dropped from Morgan's shoulders, leaving his arms feeling heavy. "The same thing," he replied, still frowning. It was true, but it didn't make him feel any better for some odd reason. Derek took a break, shaking out his fingers, as if could flick out all the emotions running through him. His eyes ran over the small space. "I'm one of the unsubs…" he began anew.

Rossi nodded, taking another step back, watching the man work.

Morgan glanced around, noticing the chair unfolded beside the ice machine. He'd found the ice bucket, the water-filled plastic bag beside it, on the sidewalk. _Here_ , he thought, stooping to run his fingers over the cool cement beneath the spot. The ice bucket had been missing from Penelope's room.

"I see Penelope here," Morgan says, focusing on the unsub's frame of mind.

"Why Garcia?" Rossi questions. "Why not Reid?"

"She's the one who came out for ice," Morgan replied, pushing himself to his feet. "Garcia tripped yesterday, twisted her ankle. She didn't say anything, but she was limping a little before Hotch told her and Reid to head to the motel. She must have went for ice after she settled in. Reid either followed her or came afterwards." Morgan didn't like where the exercise was taking him. "Garcia's vulnerable. She's sitting, checking on her leg. Reid comes into the picture. He's got his gun on him…"

Rossi's gaze narrowed. "You leave the cell phones behind, but not the gun."

Morgan nodded. "Not because I need a weapon - I already had one. It's the only way I could have controlled two adults at once."

"And you're not alone," Rossi added. He frowned, stepping up to Morgan, pretending to be behind him. "If one of them circled around behind Reid…"

Morgan nodded, following the thought, and moved out onto the sidewalk, where he'd found Penelope's feather. The room the two brothers were in was only a few down. The hotel manager had told him that only two of the rooms on the back side of the motel were in use, but that the brothers had requested a room back here.

Morgan's mouth opened, finishing the theory, "…A room in the back. Fewer witnesses." His eyes scanned the empty parking lot. It was smaller than the one up front, hidden by hedges on two sides. "No one notices the vehicles back here either." His footfalls quickened. He ducked under the crime scene tape, staring into the room. "Take the time to clean the area…"

Motel rooms were notoriously bad crime scenes for evidence teams. Too many prints, too much DNA. But this room had been wiped down, for the most part. Morgan eased himself down into the pulled chair at the small breakfast table, looking out through the half-closed blinds. Hotch had mentioned the possibility that the kidnapping was planned. If so, this area was chosen because it was hidden, not because it gave them the chance to spy their prey.

Morgan stood, and paused. He reached out, running his finger along the windowseal. The grit collected on his skin and he rubbed it between two fingers.

Rossi cleared his throat. "Salt," he provided. "The team collected some earlier. Just normal salt. It was spilled out along the window and door. Not much, though."

Morgan's brow was knitted in confusion. Not much, Rossi had said…But to Morgan, the streaks of movement in the salt seemed to indicate that it had already been cleaned up. "At the door, too?"

As if in response, their was a quick, knuckled knock on the open door. The hotel manager stooped under the tape, holding his curling back as if he expected it to break. The old man's jaw waggled, preparing to speak.

"Mr. Pierce, can we help you?" David asked.

"Uh, Agent, uh, Rossi?" he asked, stepping closer. His eyes widened a bit and he nodded to himself in confirmation. Even if Morgan hadn't been told that the manager's eyesight was failing, he would have realized it soon enough. "You, uh, you…"

"We're just checking the area again," Morgan replied. He gestured down to the table. "Mr. Pierce, do these rooms come with a set of salt and pepper shakers?"

Mr. Pierce blinked, as if his vision had failed completely, and then shook his head. "Why, no, son, don't come with them. These old units don't even come with a microwave." He gave a wet cough before reaching down into the pocket of his pleated khakis for a napkin. "But, uh, I ain't stopping in to be nosey. I just wondered if you got that there picture I sent your way."

"What picture?"

Rossi's pocket vibrated in answer. The agent picked it up, muttering about the reception, before he flipped it open. He shot the manager a glance. "What's this, Mr. Pierce."

"That there family," Mr. Pierce nodded, "the one staying a few doors down. I done told you they left on their vacation before your people got taken, but they called back earlier today. Their little boy lost one of his games and wanted to know if it was in his room. Got talkin' to his daddy, and the man said his boy had taken a picture on his phone. That picture," he said, poking one knobby finger at Rossi's phone. "Kid thought the car was real fine. I asked him 'bout it, and he said it was parked on this side o' the building."

Morgan found himself over Rossi's shoulder in an instant, staring down at the screen. It was a side shot of clean black lines, a classic. Nothing reflective in the background that would give them a tag number, but the model…The model looked like it would be easy to find.

"Send it to Gar-" Morgan's voice broke; he shook it off. "Sent it to Hotch," he corrected. "I think he's getting Kevin Lynch for tech consultation. He might be able to get something off of this." His eyes shot up, focusing on the manager. "And we're going to need to call this family back. See if they spotted anything else during their stay."

The old man hobbled back out, nodding to himself. "I'll get the number for ya."

Morgan shook his head, staring down at Rossi's cell again. "Kind of looks like an old Chevy…"

"Impala," Rossi agreed.

Morgan tilted his head, eyes narrowed at he studied the vehicle. It sparked something, a memory of a conversation he'd once had with another agent. "A '67..." he muttered.

"Maybe," Rossi replied. He shot Morgan a glance. "That mean something to you?"

Morgan licked his lip, trying to scratch at the memory. "No," he replied, "I don't think so." He shook his head. "Nah, I was just thinking of this agent I used to know. He had a bit of an obsession with a black Impala."

But Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that the vehicle should mean something to him. Something specific. He groaned. Some days he'd sell his soul for Reid's memory.

* * *

The Winchesters had secured them expertly, a little too well versed in the ways of detaining another human being for Penelope's liking, and they'd left for town after breakfast, warning the two of them to stay out of trouble. Opening the front door had sent a cool wave over the room, reminding her that it was winter in a rural community. Not exactly the best circumstances for an attempted escape.

Even though it was shut now, the chill remained in the large main room of the cabin. Penelope eyed the heater sitting between her and Reid's chair, wishing she had one arm free so she could turn it up. The weather had been so mild when they'd arrived that she hadn't thought twice about changing out of her dress. Now she was regretting the choice.

Granted, if she'd known kidnapping was on the agenda, she would probably have packed a completely different wardrobe. Foresight being 20/20 and all.

Penelope stared at the door, waiting for it to open as quickly as it had closed, but it didn't. There was a muffled sound from right outside. Raised voices. No doubt belonging to her capturers. But, she couldn't make out the words. They faded into the distance, the sound of an engine far away.

"Garcia?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of the whisper. Reid was eyeing her, his gaze shifting from her chair to the door, as if he was waiting for the knob to turn as soon as he reopened his mouth.

"Penelope," he corrected himself.

Penelope knew he was trying to comfort her, but it didn't quite reach home. "Please tell me your genius mind has devised a way of getting us out of this cabin," she whispered back.

"I need you to listen to me." Reid took a breath, losing whatever authority he was trying to conjure. "I - I need you to promise me something, Penelope. If something happens…" He paused, glancing the door again, before he continued, "If something happens and you manage to get loose, I want you to run. I can slow them down, I think, but…"

Garcia shook her head. "Oh, you are so not suggesting I leave you behind," she hissed. "Doctor, for someone so intelligent, you're awfully stupid sometimes. I'm not going to leave you behind. Period."

Reid frowned. "Penelope, their reported history with women…" He chewed his bottom lip, considering the right words. "What do you know about the Winchesters?"

Garcia blinked. "Other than the fact that they obviously have no qualms about kidnapping federal agents, and they're probably the crazies we came to this town looking for?"

"Possibly," Reid agreed.

Garcia raised a brow, confused by the answer, but she didn't have time to question it. Staring into Spencer's solemn brown eyes, Penelope felt another chill run over her. This one wasn't caused by the breeze. "Well, that and what I've gathered while you were talking to them. What do you know about these two, Reid?"

Reid raised his head, as if trying to work up the courage to continue. "First," he began, "I should probably tell you what they believe in…what they were raised to believe in."

Penelope swallowed, her voice low, "I'm not going to like this story, am I, Reid?"


	5. Dead Men Drive Kick Ass Cars

The roadways were slick, the temperature outside dropping quickly. Yesterday, they'd arrived to unseasonable warmth. Rain had met them by sunset and a light, barely-existent snow by morning. Emily hoped that didn't mean ice was next on the weather's agenda.

"Alabama winter," Officer Collins excused, as if he'd been able to read her mind. "Kinda likes to go from one extreme to the next."

Emily shot him a polite smile. Slick black hair and a square chin; the statey would have been attractive it weren't for the wedding band pressing against the steering wheel. He didn't take his eyes off the road, the state police vehicle teetering with the speed limit. Emily turned away from him, looking over her shoulder at the backseat passenger.

Michael Gravitt was staring out the window, watching the trees pass by. He was tall for his age, well built, and a stark contrast to the pictures of his little brother. She would have easily mistaken him for fourteen, at least, if it weren't for the pout at his lips. It was almost a comical expression, but the circumstances were anything but funny: he was trying to keep himself from crying. Emily recognized as much and had the good grace not to bring it up.

"Hey, Michael?" she called. "How are you doing, buddy? What do you want me to get you to eat when we get back to the station? Anything you want."

Michael shrugged, his eyes never leaving the outside world. "Whatever."

Prentiss had only known the kid for a few hours and she'd already heard the one word response five times. "You like burgers?"

"Sure."

Emily bit down her smile. She'd always thought kids were more talkative, but she had a feeling that Michael was always this quiet, even on days that didn't include his brother being kidnapped. Maybe it had to do with the father… Prentiss was no longer fighting a smile, her lips set in a thin line at the mere thought of the man who'd reported his son missing, angry instead of afraid, blood alcohol level through the roof. Between his hostile attitude and Michael's responses about his homelife, Emily had a feeling that neglect, at the very least, played a bit part in Michael's flippant behavior.

"How much longer?" Emily asked.

Officer Collins didn't so much as blink. "Seven, eight more minutes," he chirped. "Don't worry, Agent Prentiss. I got a full tank and no reason for stopping between here and there." He shot Michael a kind glance through the rearview mirror. "You'll like Sheriff McKinney, Michael. If you ask real nice, he'll probably let you use a stun gun on Deputy Barnel."

Michael sucked in a quick breath, but it wasn't from excitement.

"A man." Michael's voice was high, afraid. Emily turned in her seat, staring back at him. Michael had pushed himself as far back as his seat belt would allow, nearly to the center of the car, one raise finger pointing out the window. "There was a man out there - did you see him?" His blue eyes were wide. "There was something wrong with him…"

Emily opened her mouth to reply when the radio beat her to it, letting out a loud squeal. Static followed, the lights on the dash blinking in unison with the rise and hiss of the sound.

"What the hell?" Collins muttered.

Emily reached out, trying to stop the sound when she heard the officer shout out in surprise, his arms twisting as he turned the wheel from the lane and hit the brakes. Prentiss braced herself against the door on instinct, seconds before the car bounced upward, hitting the gravel. The tires slid against the ice, jackknifing the vehicle tail first into the ditch beside the pull-off.

Prentiss slammed back against her seat, the breath knocked out of her for a moment. She blinked furiously at the windshield. A few seconds of silence passed, just long enough for her to tame her swimming thoughts.

"What just happened?" Emily asked, grappling for her seat belt release. Though they hadn't flipped, the feeling of tilting backwards was disorienting. She felt heavy, especially with her frantic heart playing the congas in her chest. "What just happened?" she repeated, louder. "Officer Collins?"

The officer groaned, but not from injury. He was shaking his head, confused. "There… there was a man."

Emily ran a hand across her face, trying to clear away the _deja vu_. Wasn't that what Michael said, just a moment ago? _Michael_. Emily jerked in her seat.

"Michael, are you alright?"

There wasn't an answer. Her seatbelt popped free, and she turned, staring back. She was met with an empty seat and cool breeze from the open door.

"Michael?" she called, staring dumbly at the door a moment longer before she struggled with her own, slipping and sliding as soon as her feet hit the ground. She toppled out, not waiting for Officer Collins to follow her lead. Her eyes roamed the snow dusted grass of the ditch below the open door.

No footprints. Not a one. And then a thought occurred to her, one that stopped her in her place: the back doors couldn't be opened from the inside.

Michael Gravitt had been taken. In a split second.

* * *

"… And those were their last known whereabouts…"

Penelope Garcia knew monsters existed. She'd seen her team capture their fair share of them. But when she was a child, she'd believed in the real deal. Claws and fangs. Glowing eyes and cold spots.

"…Though, that's not taking into account…"

Deep down, a little part of her still believed in those things.

So, she could understand how someone else could believe in monsters, too. How someone could take that belief too far.

"…If we were to look through the records for…"

"Reid, honey." She had to pause, wait for him to stop speaking. His dark eyes danced over her, waiting for a reaction. They softened, and she could tell Reid was afraid he'd said too much. "That's enough… I really, really," she forced a tight smile, "don't want to hear any more of their backstory."

Because it hurt to hear it. Two little boys, a grieving father, a dead mother. A mission to save people from things that go bump. A criminal record. Fake IDs and credit card scams. Hospital records and grave desecration. And she knew what Spencer was skimming over, too. The murder. Murder _s_. Alleged. Mostly, though, she kept circling back to the two little boys part.

When it came to judging people at face value, Penelope Garcia had been wrong in the past. Oh boy had she been. She had the scars to prove it. But she still hadn't quite convinced herself that that little spark behind Dean Winchester's smile, or Sam Winchester's wide, puppy-dog eyes, was entirely sinister.

"Are you sure, Reid?" Penelope asked. Not because she doubted him as a profiler. Not a chance. But Penelope had noticed the way he was speaking. Like he doubted the very words coming out of his mouth. "I mean… I know you've already said that Henricksen got some things wrong about the Winchesters. But are you really sure they're the bad guys here? I mean obviously, not good guys, but... Are we sure they're who we're looking for?"

Reid licked his bottom lip, not meeting her eyes entirely. "Fits," he managed.

She raised a brow. He looked up at her with a small frown.

"Maybe not all of it," he amended. Reid hunched forward, his voice low. "But, can we take that chance?"

Penelope was saved from having to answer. There was a sound outside, rumbling and mechanical. Quickly becoming familiar. It was Winchester's car. The Impala. Their abductors were already returning.

Something about that car, about the image of those two young man stepping out of it, reminded her of something she'd heard once.

"This is going to sound weird, Reid," Penelope warned, her voice at a whisper, "but this kinda reminds me of a story."

Spencer raised a brow, but his eyes were already tracing the distance between the door and their chairs.

"One Kevin told me about," she continued. "He reads this obscure book series, and he's been harping at me for not picking them up… I just haven't had the chance, you know? Anyway, I could have sworn…"

But Reid wasn't listening. The voices outside were getting louder. The door knob turned. Whatever Penelope was going to say faded away, lost. Because she suddenly remembered her own belief in smiling monsters. And the fact that she was still a hostage. Suddenly some old book's plotline didn't feel relevant.

* * *

"Damn it, how're we supposed to get anything done with FBI agents spilling out of the woodwork?"

Dean trudged into the cabin, carefully stepping over the salt line. Sam was at his heels, the younger brother's arms filled with a stack of files. The trip hadn't been a complete bust, but the coroner's _had_ been a let down. Between the locals, the state officers, and the feds, there wasn't much room for their extensive selection of fake ID s.

Sam was wearing a sour expression, and Dean was about to point out "bitch face," when his brother sighed and sat down the load next to his computer. "After what happened this morning, I think you were right about this case," he announced.

Dean cocked his head. "We already went over this, didn't we?"

Sam gave him a sheepish shrug in response. "Yeah, well, Dean," he released another breath, "I wasn't really sure if you were…" His voice broke, his eyes shifting to the room's other occupants as if he'd forgotten them. "You know what, never mind. So, a ghost."

Dean shook his head. The tight smile at his lips was teasing, but Dean knew his brother could read the intensity in his eyes. "Suddenly bashful, Samantha? Come on, what were you going to say?"

Sam rolled his jaw. "Fine. I wasn't really sure if you were a hundred percent on this case. Especially after Tommy Gravitt was taken. Man, I know how you are about kids." He shook his head, breaking eye contact. "You were always the one telling me that we only stick to _our kind_ of work, but I thought, maybe, you were just going to use this boy's abduction as an excuse to stay on."

Dean wasn't an idiot. One look at his Sam's face told him he was lying. That the comment Sam had _meant_ to make involved the big trip downstairs. Dean chewed his jaw, considered not letting it go, and decided against being the stubborn SOB this round. It would come up again, he knew, but not now. Not while a kid was in danger.

"But now?" Dean asked, instead.

Sam flipped back through the files, pulling out a map between them. "Like I said, I think you're right. But we're going about finding this thing the wrong way." He took a seat, eyes tracing the lines on the paper. "While we were at the archives department, remember the two officers we heard talking about the case? They mentioned what the profilers had said about suspecting two abductors now."

Dean raised a brow. "You think we have two spirits?"

Sam shook his head. "No, I think we have one ghost, but…Remember what we said about ghosts not traveling unless they're attached to something? What if the ghost is attached to something another person is carrying around? With the victims all being siblings…"

"Wait, you," Dean broke off, blinking, "you're saying some person out there is helping their dead brother or sister kidnap and torture people for kicks?" His eyes widened at Sam's nod. "What the hell, dude?" He huffed, slouching down onto the bed. "What kind of freak does…?" He paused midway through the question, his eyes staring off at the floor as if it had opened up in front of him. He swallowed, his throat shaking with the motion, and licked his lips. "So, how's this change things?" he asked, his voice lower.

Sam remained quiet, eyes following his brother's movements. Finally, he cleared his throat and turned back to the pile of paperwork. "Well, for starters it narrows things down. We're looking for a death years ago that left behind a sibling. And my guess is, that sibling is going to be disturbed enough to stand out in a crowd."

Dean groaned and fell back against the mattress, holding himself up on his elbows. "Okay, then, Sammy, answer me this: why were the murders so spaced out before five weeks ago?" He nodded at the files. "We get a couple deaths over a span of years and then suddenly a whole chain of deaths. Something doesn't add up."

A small cough drew their attention.

"A stressor."

* * *

"A stressor."

Reid regretted the attention as soon as it shifted to him. When the Winchesters turned to stare in his direction, though, he licked his lips and went on. "What we call a stressor. Something traumatic took place in the unsub's life. It could have been a death, an illness, a change in living conditions."

His gaze rose to meet Sam's without meaning to. Sam's lips were pursed, his brow lowered, warning the agent. But Reid noticed that Dean's expression was open, curious. The older man had sat up straight, hands cupping his knees as if he were preparing to stand.

"Is that how you'd track him?" Dean asked. "That how we can find the guy?"

Reid shook his head, fidgeting against the ropes around his chest. "Doubtful," he replied. He ignored Penelope's indignant snort -- _yes, she could probably use the tid-bit of information to do miracles, if she had her set-up._ "We take that information into consideration, but it alone isn't enough. What might be a stressor to an unsub might appear to be something ordinary to anyone else. Or it might be an event that was never made public."

Spencer could feel the glare burning a hole through him. Sam Winchester would be able to give Hotch a run for his money when it came to withering stares, but Spencer wasn't going to step down, not when he had been presented such an opening. Something, _something_ happened to Dean recently, something that was haunting him, and Reid was determined to find out what it was. Because knowing everything he could, having a full profile, was what was going to get him and Penelope out alive.

"In some cases, only the unsub himself can tell us what actually happened…"

Dean cocked a brow. "There you go using that word again: unsub. What's that mean?"

Reid opened his mouth, but Sam cut him off. "Unknown Subject." At Dean's expression of disbelief, Sam shrugged. "You need to watch more TV, Dean."

Dean pushed himself up to his feet. "Alright, so something set the guy off, got it." His fingers swiped his lips, wiping away the dampness there. "This dick and his dead Obi Wan decide they need to spill a little more blood in the water in order to make themselves feel better. So, they quit spacing out their kills, don't leave any time between kidnappings anymore." His voice trailed off, and he took two quick steps toward the agent.

Reid's eyes widened at the move, his body stiffening in preparation for a blow. But Dean only pushed the cooler up to his chair, taking a seat in front of him.

"Alright, Spencer, I need to ask you something."

"Dean, don't," Sam groaned from the table. He slapped the map down on the wood, annoyance dripping from him. "Seriously, dude. Don't talk to him."

Dean waved his brother off. "Spencer's going to help us out, aren't you?"

Penelope's chair moaned as she twisted to see what was happening beside her. "Dean," she muttered, but Reid was already shaking his head to stop her.

"What did you want to ask me?" Reid asked, his voice soft.

Dean rolled his shoulders, as if to shrug off an ache. Reid had noticed him make the move several times. An ache in his shoulders, an ache in his legs, an ache in his neck, as if Dean were remembering some old pains. Reid knew it wasn't caused by any injuries, but he wasn't about to call attention to the movements. Not yet. He waited for Dean to continue.

"That kid who was taken early this morning. Tommy Gravitt. He has a brother named Michael." Dean shook his head, angry gaze downcast, but Reid knew the emotion wasn't intended for anyone else. This was what Spencer had seen before Dean had disappeared in the night: guilt. "They got to the other kid before we could track him down," Dean continued. "That's all everyone was talking about when we went into town. Michael Gravitt was snatched up while he was being moved to the Sheriff's office."

"Only hours after Thomas was abducted," Reid muttered, his brow knitted.

Dean gave a crooked smile. "And once again, I was out of the room. Gotta work on having a better alibi." He cleared his throat, seriousness taking over. "Spencer, I need you to do your job, alright? I need you to tell me how long these kids have left." He chewed his lip. "Or… or if you think they might already be dead."

Reid had to stop the statistics from falling out of his mouth. Dean Winchester wouldn't care about the percentage of children found alive if recovered in the first twenty-four hours. He wouldn't care that every hour missing the percentage dropped. He wouldn't care because he was the one responsible.

Right?

It was hard to believe, staring into those sincere green eyes. Watching the tension cross Dean's face at the mere mention of the children dying. A part of Reid wanted to believe that these two brothers, as delusional as their histories made them out to be, were simply in town by coincidence. Hunting down another pair of serial killers they'd convinced themselves were supernatural beings. But the chances of that… Reid didn't need to remind himself. The possibility, the likelihood that they were stowing away victims, that Dean and Sam were responsible…

_Unless_ he looked at the facts. The ones he could see from where he sat. They _almost_ told a different story. And then there was Penelope's reaction to them. Not that she was a profiler, but, still…

Reid shrugged off the thought. There wasn't time for contemplation, not while he had Dean's attention. He couldn't risk it.

"Dean," Reid wanted to try reasoning with him. Just once. He'd thought, for a split second, that he might be able to reach Sam, but the attempt had fizzled before it could begin. But he hadn't really pushed Dean, not yet.

Spencer looked over Dean's shoulder, at Sam. The young man was shaking his head, still warning him.

Maybe now wasn't the time. Reid fell back on playing along. If he could convince Dean that the kids were alive… Maybe he'd keep them that way.

"When Michael was taken," Reid caught his breath, not realizing he'd lost it, "when he was taken, did the unsubs leave behind any pictures of Thomas? A video?"

Dean straightened. "No. I don't think so. If they did, the officers we overheard didn't mention it." He frowned. "Which I guess is a little off… These asshats sent their victims videos and pictures of their younger siblings being tortured in all the previous cases, but they…"

"Probably didn't have time," Reid fed him. "My guess is that they went off-script because Michael was being moved to a safe place where they wouldn't be able to reach him. If that's the case, they didn't have time to torture Thomas."

"That's good and all, but how does it help us?"

Spencer leaned forward, his voice low, imploring. "Serial killers do what they do because they have needs that aren't being met. For some reason, these unsubs _need_ to show the older siblings how the younger ones are suffering. They didn't have time for that with the Gravitt brothers." Reid could feel the restraints pinching at his skin, but he only pushed against them more. His whisper was so quiet that he doubted Sam could hear it. "This is good, Dean. It means that they'll need to keep both boys alive longer. To show Michael whatever it is they want him to see. You've got time. You can save them."

Reid took a breath. He was tempted to turn to Garcia, give her a reassuring glance, but he knew she was following him. This was exactly what they'd talked about, the way the Winchesters saw danger, saw monsters, at every turn. She knew to play along.

"Penelope and I will do whatever we can to help you _save_ them, Dean."

Dean nodded, slowly standing. "We've got time then. That's all I needed to know." He held his palms out in a quick, thankful gesture. "Remind me to buy you a drink after this, scarecrow."

Reid wasn't sure when Sam had stood, but the towering man was behind his brother in an instant. He reached out, grabbing Dean by his shoulder. Dean jumped slightly at the contact but hid the movement with a dismissive shrug.

"We need to talk," Sam said.

Dean raised one eye brow, taken aback. "Well, talk then. But if this gets chick-flicky, I'm exercising my right to press the mute button."

Sam shot Reid and Penelope a look before turning back to his brother. "I need to talk to you _alone_ ," he insisted.

* * *

Morgan slouched down into the chair, studying the blown up photograph dangling from his fingertips. Even sharpened, it was still poor quality thanks to the source. Still, Morgan felt as if it were entirely _too_ familiar.

"We've got their vehicle then?"

Morgan glanced up to see Prentiss approaching him. He straightened, shaking his head at her appearance. She wasn't supposed to be back quite yet. Something told him the headstrong woman had all but forced the EMT checking her out to release her with a clean bill of health. Hotch wouldn't be happy about that, though… Morgan looked past her, seeing Hotch on the phone as he strode next to Sheriff McKinney. The man had barely registered Prentiss's reappearance.

Prentiss turned, following Morgan's gaze. She rubbed at a crick in her neck. Morgan didn't comment on it. Or on the accident. Or on their second missing kid. Prentiss wouldn't appreciate the reminder.

"Hotch on the phone with Strauss?" she asked.

Morgan didn't reply, slouching forward instead, as if he were trying to lean into the picture in front of him. "We don't have a tag, but we have a possible make and model." He handed her the printout.

Emily frowned, shaking her head. "Any local hits?"

"Rossi's making a few phone calls. The closest city has a guy who gets in parts for classics, but this town's a bit dry on specialist mechanics." Morgan watched Prentiss's lip twitch, knowing that she was dying to interrupt. "So far, though? Kevin's searching the vehicle registry, but there's no listing for a local with a '67 Impala."

Prentiss shook her head, confused. "But we profiled a local. Someone who lived in this or the adjacent county, and what we've ended up with… Two guys staying at a motel? With a car that doesn't seem to be owned by anyone in the area? Morgan, this case is making less and less sense. We've profiled these guys all wrong." She sat on the edge of the table, arms crossed over her chest.

Morgan knew what she wasn't saying. She could have continued to argue her point, but it would involve pointing out one of the major flaws: Reid and Garcia hadn't been dumped, but two more had been taken.

"How's Officer Collins?" Morgan asked.

Prentiss released a breath through her nose, the slightest bit of annoyance in the shift of her eyes. "Shaken up, but he'll be fine," she replied. "He's still saying he drove off the road to avoid someone standing in his lane. Which I suppose has to be right." She shook her head, unconvinced. "Especially with as fast as Michael disappeared. I swear, Morgan, I didn't even hear the back door open."

"You lost time," Morgan answered. "It happens in accidents."

Prentiss nodded, staring down through her near-black bangs. "It just seemed so fast." Her gaze found the printout stealing Morgan's focus and she held it up. "Huh."

Morgan raised a brow. "What?"

"Nothing," she muttered, "it just reminds me of… The alias at the motel, famous rock bands. Two brothers. A black Impala." She gave an unamused chuckle, rolling her tongue against her jaw in thought. "If I didn't know better…"

Morgan sat up straight, his body rigid. "This reminds you of that case, too?"

Prentiss frowned. "Who could forget? I think Agent Henricksen contacted J.J. on a weekly basis."

"He was even worse before you were put on the team. Obsessed over those brothers. And, from what I heard, his psych eval suffered, too," Morgan noted, rolling one wide palm over his head. "I think Reid was the only one he managed to get help out of. Kid had a hard time saying no." Morgan shook his head. "Man…I haven't thought of Victor in a while."

"Not since he died in that gas explosion," Prentiss agreed. With a cock of her head, she begrudgingly added, " _and_ his suspects with him. Which rules out the Winchester brothers as our unsubs, I suppose. Though, if I didn't know better, I'd say our current unsubs could have studied criminal behavior under them."

But her colleague had quit listening.

"…Went up in a fiery blaze that killed a half-dozen." Morgan cradled his chin between two fingers, rubbing the bristled surface. "But, Emily, what if -- "

Hotch opened the glass door to their work area, frowning at his two agents. "Rossi didn't find anything with the mechanics. We have officers asking about the vehicle, and J.J. is speaking with the local news station right now."

"Hotch." Morgan stood, leaning over the table. He knew officers were already asking local businesses and watering-holes about the vehicle, but they wouldn't be asking the right question. "I'd like to go ask the attendants at the gas stations myself. Start with the ones in the most rural areas first."

Hotch's gaze narrowed slightly but he nodded his consent. Morgan didn't have to turn to know that Prentiss's brow was raised, asking him what he had in mind. She and Morgan both already knew the answer to the question neither of them would dare pose to Hotch quite yet.

Morgan was looking for two dead men driving an Impala.


	6. Monsters We Have Known

The wetness at his fingertips was salty, clear. Tears. Not his own. Soon it would be different. He would walk away, and it would be blood smeared across his skin. A metallic flavor, not quite sweet but almost. Ricky had tasted it once, when his curiosity had gotten the better of him. There was power in blood. And danger. That was one of the reasons he was drawn to it.

The tears were glistening on his fingertips. He rubbed his thumb over them before wiping them off on his jacket.

"I'll kill you!"

Ricky was shaken from his thoughts by Michael's venom. The boy was at the room's corner, struggling against the ropes holding him against the wall. Ricky had tried many different techniques when it came to restraints, but most of them were too complicated. Too much trouble.

The thin nylon ropes made the boy look as if he were covered in fat thread, a ball of it. The thought made Ricky smile. Michael was in a standing position, forced into it by the pull of the knots. Ricky had taken an industrial staple gun from his last workplace. It was surprising how well it held the restraints to the sheetrock of the wall, like Frankenstein's staples holding down the crown of his skull.

One would pop free, then another, but never enough, never enough staples to give the boy the chance to free one arm, one leg. This new method wouldn't work on an adult. Glenn had pointed it out to Ricky, but that didn't really matter. What mattered was the project of the moment. These two. These brothers.

And Ricky wanted to make sure Michael stayed standing. Stayed aware, on his feet. So he could have a good view.

"Did you hear me?" Michael spat. His cheeks were shaking with rage, but his face was pale, clammy. Afraid. A twelve-year-old's face. "I said I'll kill you, you creep. Let me go!"

Ricky shook his head, looking around the room. Wanting Glenn to be there. To take over. "I just spoke with Thomas," Ricky said, as if he were mentioning the melting snow outside. "He's mighty upset."

Michael grew still, forgetting that he was trying to pull the ropes free. His eyes widened. "You're… you're the one who took my little brother," he said. His wet lashes dropped the years from his face, making him look more like his sibling. "Please… I take it back, okay? I'll… if you let Tommy go, I won't be mad. I won't tell anyone."

Ricky shook his head. "Where were you?" he asked, his voice lower. "So brave, so concerned. Where was that concern when Thomas needed you last night?"

Michael bottom lip quivered. "I didn't mean to leave him."

"But you did, didn't you? You left him."

"I didn't _think_."

"Don't lie!" Ricky snapped, livid. He stomped forward, gripping Michael by the jaw. "You wanted to get rid of him. You didn't care if --" Ricky broke off, shaking his head. The anger seemed to evaporate off his face. When his voice returned, it was casual, explanatory. "You don't understand yet. But you will. We'll teach you." He smiled down. "Glenn and I, we'll teach you what it means to be a good big brother."

* * *

Sam reached the porch and stopped to balance his hands on his waist, surveying the dead landscape of woodland around him and holding back the shiver the icy wind brought to surface. One breath, one moment of composure, then he rounded on his brother. Dean shrugged his shoulders into his coat and quietly shut the door behind him, confusion wrinkling his forehead when he noticed Sam's expression.

"What the hell's your problem, Sammy?" Dean snapped.

Sam's eyes widened. " _My_ problem, Dean?" he asked. "My problem would be the way that guy's trying to use you."

Dean blinked, gesturing back into the house. "Spencer?" he asked, surprised.

Sam raised his chin. "Yes, _Spencer._ Otherwise known as Dr. Reid, the FBI agent, just in case you've forgotten that part. Dean, you need to quit talking to him."

Dean raised a hand to stop his brother. "Dude, what the hell, did he sleep with your demon chick or something? What happened while I was out?"

Sam ignored the mention of Ruby, taking a calming breath through his nose. "Dean, I don't get it. You've always known how to handle yourself around the police in the past, and suddenly you're flushing the manual? How can you not see what that agent's trying to get you to do. He's watching your every move, trying to play into your 'fantasy.' I've got a twenty that says he'd probably say he believed in demons if you went in and asked him right now."

Dean shook his head, a small smile on his face. "What, and you don't think I know he's playing along? I'm not an idiot," he said. "It's not like I'm handing Spencer a sawed-off and expecting him to watch my back, Sam. We might be looking for a human criminal here, and he's an expert on finding those. What, you want me to just lock him in a closet and ignore anything he says?"

Sam bit back whatever was about to leave his mouth and pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, Dean," he managed. "That's not what I'm saying. I just want you to remember who these people are. Anything we say in front of him right now, he can use against us later."

"I'll be sure to bring that up to my lawyer."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Dean."

" _Sam_ ," Dean mocked. He took a quick step forward. "Look me in the eye and tell me what this is really about. I somehow doubt you drug me out here to give me a lesson from Kidnapping 101. So, spit it out already."

Sam let his head drop, as if he were exhausted by the discussion. His gaze ventured out at the woods and he felt that chill across his back again. This time it wasn't the cold. Though he didn't see any movement in the shadows, he had the strangest feeling that someone was watching him. _Ruby?_ Sam licked his bottom lip on instinct but quickly brushed off thoughts of his "demon chick" and her little offerings, a small part of him afraid that his brother might become a mind reader over the next ten seconds.

He pulled his gaze back to Dean, surveying that expected kiss-my-ass expression that was so familiar. _No way of getting through that thick skull_ , Sam reminded himself, but he opened his mouth, nevertheless. "We give up so much." His voice was low, almost lost. "We sacrifice so much to save people. You went to Hell, Dean. For me." Sam's eyes lifted. "So, yeah, I'm having a hard time stomaching someone who whole-heartedly believes you're some depraved serial killer. It's not fair to us. It's not fair to you."

Dean chewed his gum, looking away to avoid the wetness gathering in his lids. "Sam… They're not all wrong. I… I'm not exactly innocent."

"But, we're not what they think we are," Sam insisted. He clenched his fists at his sides. "And it's not fair, Dean. It's not fair that you'd probably do whatever you could to save those two in there, if they were ever in trouble, but they'd put you away for it. It's not fair that they don't know."

Dean raised a finger, cutting him off. "No, Sam." Dean locked his jaw, shaking his head. "I wouldn't want them to know. Let them go on thinking that they've already seen the worse they've got to fear. Let them believe I cut up girls for kicks. It's better than screwing their lives up by trying to convince them the boogeyman exists." He paused, taking a breath before he caught his brother's eye again. "Because I don't know if you've noticed this yet, but when civilians get involved, they tend to die."

Sam looked down, frowning. "Fine." He smiled, half amused by his brother's declaration. Even if he did think it was total crap. He'd drop the subject, if only for the moment. "But do you really have to act so chummy with them?"

"Suddenly the human Care Bear has a problem with me being a good host? Guess I should scare the hell out of them even more?" Dean snorted, shaking his head. "Do me a favor, Sam. Just give Spencer, give _Dr. Reid,_ a break. There's only so many intense stares one man can take before he starts fearing for his virtue."

"Dean," Sam warned.

"Seriously, Sam, all that sexual tension. It's embarrassing poor Penny. I'd tell you to take it to the back room if we had one. No such luck. But, hey, maybe I'm getting my readings wrong. Maybe all that stress is just from lil' Sammy getting a tad bit jealous cause Spence is receiving all my cool brotherly attention." Dean chuckled when Sam's fist bounced off his arm. It was quickly followed by a wince when he dodged the second blow. " _Ouch_ , the truth _does_ hurt."

Sam huffed. "You are _such_ a jerk."

Dean's grin was gleaming. "And, apparently I'm bat-shit crazy, too. Quite the package, right? Speaking of which, have you noticed Penelope?" Dean's grin was doggish.

"Shut up, Dean." Sam brushed back his hair, determined to keep the annoyance plastered on his face. Because he sure as hell wasn't going to let Dean see how much better a few jokes made him feel. "Just, shut up."

* * *

In an age of security cameras, spotting a classic car in a small community should have proved easier. Hotch had called when Morgan had left the second station, updating him on the search status. They'd found two people who had described seeing such a vehicle on the town's main drive earlier in the morning, but the witnesses didn't have much to report on the drivers or the tags. And, unfortunately, Attalla was such a small town that street cameras weren't a viable option.

Morgan had done a double take at the information. These had to be either the stupidest or cockiest unsubs he'd been after in a long time to take out the same vehicle they used to kidnap federal employees. And, yet, they'd blended in, hiding in plain sight. Maybe the cockiness was well deserved.

To say Morgan was pissed by the time he reached the third gas station, the final stop he'd be making before reporting back to their makeshift office in the Sheriff's department, was a grave understatement.

"Yeah." The attendant scratched his stringy brown hair before scooping it behind one pierced ear. "Yeah, saw it this morning actually. Drove in right after opening. Pretty damn early for anyone who's not a trucker or headed out to the chicken plant for the shift change."

Morgan blinked, surprised at the confirmation. "Get a look at the driver?"

The attendant, Paul, as he'd muttered at the sight of a badge, leaned down onto the counter, glancing out the glass doors of the convenient store. "Sure, man. Dude paid cash, though, so no records." He pointed at the farthest pump. "Parked that cherry right there, filled her up, and came in. Bought a shit-load of food. Guess he had the munchies."

Morgan could feel his pulse throbbing against his throat. "How much food exactly?"

Paul shrugged, his eyes distant. "We got a hot bar in the morning. He waited for the food to finish cookin', then bought six or so biscuits, four orders of potato rounds. Dude bought a little bit of everything and a couple sweets, too. Which I thought was kinda weird since there weren't any passengers in that cherry with him. Guessed he was either takin' it back home for the family or going on a long ride."

Morgan pulled out his phone on instinct, ready to call it in, but he hesitated. "Tell me you've got a security camera in here, Paul."

It was iffy. The other two stations had been big chains, but this one was the definition of Maw and Paw, live bait in a back room and a pinball machine in the corner. The shake of Paul's head wasn't entirely unexpected.

"Had one. Some sort of insurance requirement, but the recorder screwed up a few weeks ago." He frowned, rubbing the back of his neck and muttering the next part. "Someone kinda spilled a slushie drink on it." At Morgan's disbelieving expression, Paul stood a bit straighter. "But, I saw the guy. Like I said, we didn't get many customers this morning, so he stood out. I can give you a pretty good description. 'Bout my age and height, sandy hair cut short…"

Morgan's scowl cut him off. The agent looked down at his phone, shaking his head as he scrolled through a few items. The words "long shot" didn't begin to cover it, but Morgan couldn't shake the feeling that he was right. He paused, almost rethinking the action, before holding the mobile out to the attendant.

"Paul, is this the man you saw?"

Paul huffed out a laugh. "Hells yeah, man. That's the same dude."

Morgan pulled the phone back, staring down at the picture himself. "You're absolutely sure?"

The other man's nod was dizzying. "Same shit-eatin' grin and all -- didn't know they'd let you make that face when you're gettin' booked. Wicked." He said the last part with an air of respect.

Morgan frowned, giving his thanks and promising to return in a moment. His feet were already taking him outside to the oil-stained cement. Thankfully, the lot was empty, because his own eyes were glued on the cell's screen, where he'd drawn up a nearly two year old picture of one Dean Winchester.

"You've got to be kidding me…" Morgan sucked in a deep breath of cool air and tried to come up with a rational explanation as he pressed in Hotch's number. "I've got something," he began. "I know who we're looking for, Hotch. You're not going to believe this."

* * *

Spencer hadn't heard much of the fight taking place outside, but the raised voices had made their way inside as muffled shouts. He and Penelope shared a glance as they strained to make out words, especially words like "let's get rid of them."

The brothers' voices grew quiet, which was somehow more frightening than hearing them yell at one another, because it probably meant they'd come to some sort of agreement.

"Reid, honey," Penelope's own voice was at a whisper when she leaned forward, a slight tremble at her lip when she said the endearment. "I don't think you've made the best impression with the youngest Winchester. In fact, I think you might have pissed him off. Just a tad."

Spencer swallowed. "I noticed." Then, just as quickly, he shook his head in disagreement. Sam's behavior played back through his head, moment by moment. "Actually, I'm not sure if he was mad at me."

Penelope raised a brow.

Reid stared at the door, willing it to stay closed. "Not entirely. I know he was mad at me, but I think Sam was angrier with Dean. He's surprisingly aggressive toward him, but he's trying to hold it back."

"Why? Did Dean drink the last apple juice or something?"

He cocked his head to one side, his brow furrowed. "It could mean we're getting to Dean. Or that Sam thinks we are. Maybe that's what's troubling Sam. Perhaps it isn't protectiveness so much as self-preservation for Sam. You heard what Sam said about their being 'bigger and badder hunts.' If Dean's having doubts about what he's doing, or Sam thinks his brother should be doing more -- "

Reid's voice broke off when he saw the door knob turn. He could almost hear the woman beside him holding her breath. Dean and Sam pushed through at the same time, both of them shaking off the chill of the winter world outside. Sam, at the very least, had lost some of the tension in his shoulders, and Reid hoped that was a good sign. And that it didn't mean that Sam had gotten his way.

Spencer watched as Dean's gaze raised, found his. For a moment, they simply locked eyes, studying one another. Then the oldest Winchester burst out laughing.

"What?" Reid couldn't stop the question from slipping out of his mouth. He turned to Garcia, wide-eyed. She shrugged, obviously not in on the joke.

"Nothin'," Dean promised, biting his cheek to hold his chuckle at bay. "Just had a funny chat about you and my little brother."

Sam elbowed him as he walked past, shooting him a glare. Dean sobered up, but not because of the gesture. His eyes had drifted back to the newspaper clippings he and Sam had collected. The faces of the two deceased Hamilton siblings were staring back at him. A hollow expression set his lips in a line, left his eyes empty. "We need to get back to work," he muttered.

Sam nodded along but crossed the room instead of stopping at the table. He switched on the television and made his way back to his seat. Knees bent, he hovered for a moment, ready to sit down, before straightening back up and grabbing Dean's shoulder.

"Look."

Reid had been so absorbed in watching the two that he hadn't heard what was playing over the television. He quickly turned his head to see a reporter switching over to a photograph of a sleek black car: "…Two male suspects driving what is believed to be a 1967 Chevy Impala…"

"Shit, Sammy," Dean groaned. "Looks like we're going to need to borrow another car."

Sam frowned. "Easier said than done, Dean. We're kind of in the middle of nowhere."

Penelope huffed, "Borrow, you say?"

Dean shook his head, sharing a glance with his brother. "Dude, I swear, remember that kid at the motel, the one with his with his hands glued to the video game? Kept trying to take pictures of my baby when we first rolled in?"

Sam gave a snort of disbelieve. "Sure, Dean. Blame it on him."

Reid pulled his attention away from the television screen, considering his next move. "In a town this small, it was only a matter of time before someone spotted your car," he said, trying to keep his voice neutral. The Impala itself had been a detail that was at the back of his mind until now. It raised a few questions to which Reid immediately formulated answers, all of them rather interesting. It would be easy to assume the Winchesters kept the car because their egos led them to believe they'd never be caught, but Reid somehow doubted this to be the case. Innocently, he continued, "Why don't you get a different vehicle? One less conspicuous."

Dean shot him a look of betrayal. "Why don't you just ask me to cut off my arm while you're at it."

Sam glanced back at Spencer, a smile in his eyes, as if the animosity he'd sent the agent's way was all but a memory. "Don't bother, Spencer. He's impossible to reason with."

Spencer was pleased with the response. He readied himself to slip in another observation about the vehicle being their father's when he caught Dean's expression. The man had turned away from the agent in disgust, looking out the window as if he were willing a magic "borrowed" car to appear. Then, out of no where, his eyes had widened, his body suddenly stiff as a board. It was a split second reaction, one Reid barely had time to contemplate. It was fear, alarm, anger, all wrapped into one.

Dean dove into his brother's side, shoving him down, out of the way of the window. The sound of the bullet seemed to register after the shatter of glass, after the spray of blood, after the thud of their bodies hitting the wooden floor.


	7. We Ate Your Porridge

"You're sure, Walt?"

"Damn it, Roy, I trust Creedy, and if he says it's them…"

"Sure. Ok. I'll take care of it."

Roy Bridges pocketed the cell phone, the weight of the rifle across his thigh suddenly ten times more of a burden. The call had been too short _and_ too long. What surprised Roy most, though, was that he was still going to follow through, even with doubt nearly clouding his vision, he was going to do exactly what Walt said… _Goddamn Walt_. Walt, his back-up. Walt, his partner, still hours out of state and in the middle of an arms' trade. Walt, who said the decision was an easy one.

" _Take 'em out, Roy_."

Like it was something common, killing your fellow hunters. But these weren't just any hunters. These were the Winchesters. When folks got too close to the Winchesters, they ended up dead or _worse_. Roy'd heard their daddy was a pretty good fella when it came to finishing a job, and a couple years back, rumor had been the same about the boys he'd raised. But, things had changed.

Who would have imagined that he'd run into the two of them camping out in the old safe house? In, of all places, that dead hunter, Caleb's, place - another one of the Winchester's fatalities by association.

_Jesus_ , _the gall they had showing up here._

Roy ran gloved fingers over gaunt cheeks, worried and wishing for a shot of liquid bravery.

The new rumor about the renegade hunters wasn't rumor at all. It was fact. Putting aside the assortment of _maybes_ \-- the _maybe_ Sam Winchester was actin' a bit funny in the head, the _maybe_ the Winchesters were involved in ol' Stevie Wandell's death a few years back, the _maybe_ those dead loons Gordon and Kubrick were spot-on when they said Sam Winchester was gonna bring Hell on Earth -- all that aside, the facts remained. Sam and Dean Winchester were responsible for the most recent Hell's Gate catastrophe.

And, there was the thing about Dean Winchester dying last summer. Funny, though, how he was chattin' it up on the porch, then, not three minutes ago.

Course, the most telling fact of all was about the youngest. Sam Winchester. What he'd been spotted doing to a demon. And _with_ a demon.

Roy raised the rifle and put the devil in his sights, a choked prayer at his lips.

* * *

The bright winter sun had sent the reflection his way a second too late. Dean took the dive out of instinct, grabbing his brother on the way down. He hadn't even hit the floor when it registered, really registered, that the bullet would have passed through Sam's chest. _If_ Dean had frozen up. _If_ he'd still been wrapped up in talks with his hostages. _If_ he'd been another foot to the left.

Too many damn _ifs_ for his liking. Anger welled up inside of him at the sudden flood of possibilities, but he pushed it down to get his bearings.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growled as soon as he caught his breath. He took a solid second to shove his chin into his shoulder and glanced down the length of his body. The second declaration was louder. " _Son of a bitch!_ "

He was gonna kill 'em.

Not only was there blood dripping down from his arm, but there was blood dripping onto his _leather_ jacket. Which was currently sporting a fresh tear at the upper right arm, almost directly along the seam. Dean winced…Leather was a such a pain in the ass to sew.

_Yup._ "Gonna kill 'em," Dean confirmed.

"Did the FBI find us?"

Dean glanced up, relief flooding over him as he heard Sam's voice. He reached out, even though his arm was screaming for surrender, and grabbed his brother by the shoulder. Suddenly _it,_ that little wall between them, the one made of secrets and deals and powers, disappeared, as if it had never existed. All Dean could see was his brother. Unscathed. Which maybe meant that he wouldn't _have_ to kill the idiot shooting at them.

"Sammy, you okay?" he asked, drawing his brother's panicked gaze.

Sam nodded, trying to scoot himself closer, a difficult feat with his long legs in the way. He grabbed hold of Dean by the elbow, locking him in a man's handshake as he held his brother's arm still. "Jesus, Dean, you're _shot_."

Dean rolled his eyes. "No shit, Sherlock." He could feel his brother's grip tightening and forced a small smile. "Mr. Sharp Shooter missed, Sammy. It's just a graze. Promise."

Dean was mostly sure that was true. His mind circled back to his brother's first question, and he opened his mouth to answer when another shot rang out, busting out the upper panel of the window. The shot was wide, aiming for nothing in particular. _Just enough to keep us crawling_. The scream that followed the sound was enough to make Dean's heart jump into his throat. He'd almost forgotten the civilians.

"Not FBI," he bit. One shot, sure, leave that to the authority figures. The second said something different entirely. "Sam, get Penelope and Spencer down. _Now_."

Dean could hear Sam's argument before it left his mouth, so he shook his brother, forcing him to crane his neck, look past the table leg. They couldn't see much of the two through the furniture, but Dean got a glimpse of Penelope's face, her cheeks streaked with tears, cheeks trembling.

Sam must have seen her too, because he sucked in a breath, holding back what he was going to say, and lunged across the floor, taking half the journey on his hands and knees, the other half on his belly. It seemed like Sam reached her before Dean had a chance to blink. Her chair tilted backward, Sam cradling her head as he pushed her down. Dean realized what he was doing and nodded to himself, sliding a foot over to see if he could spot Spencer's expression.

The agent was still upright and unhurt, his head dipped low, as if he could make it disappear into his tense shoulders. His body was rigid with fear, but he hadn't cried out. Dean had a sudden memory cross through his mind, of a bank in Milwaukee, of a man whose trust he'd gained. Of a shot through a window. _Not the same,_ Dean assured himself. He bit back his own outraged shout at the thought of them getting hurt because an asshole (that asshole's name being Dean Winchester) had tied them up, and instead concentrated on the situation, on where the danger was coming from.

Dean trailed the direction of the shots, noting that Spencer was safe in his current location, as safe as he could be when a weapon was firing. His chair was angled so that it remained behind most of the appliances in the kitchenette, steel between him and the wall the gunman was firing toward. Penelope was angled outward though, but Dean sucked down his panic when he saw that his brother had already pulled her, still attached to her chair, gently to the floor and was currently trying to loosen her bindings -- not an easy task from the angle.

_Safe._ At least for the next few minutes.

Which meant it was time for Dean to get to work. He patted himself down, pleased to find he'd left his revolver on him when he'd stepped outside with Sam, even if the weapons bag and the unpacked sawed-off were laying across his cot. Dean pulled the revolver free and pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the hot flash of pain across his arm.

The assault on the cabin said a few things about their attacker. Namely that there was only one. Two gunmen would have taken a different approach entirely. Which led Dean to his second conclusion -- the shooter was dumb as hell to just open fire. It sure wasn't the way he or Sam would have approached the situation. Especially, outnumbered. _Especially_ , when it would have been too damn easy to just wait for him or his brother to step outside and pick the hunters off one by one.

Dean's final conclusion was that a dumb-ass had still managed to shoot him. It did nothing for his ego.

" _Winchester!_ "

"Shit," Dean muttered. Because the shout had come from outside. The shooter knew who they were. Didn't that just figure? Somehow, it wasn't a complete surprise that someone trying to kill them knew their name.

Dean had ground-crawled his way to the counter separating the kitchen from the rest of the cabin and pushed himself tight against it. The blown open window was only a few feet away and the cold winter was invading the room with all the quickness of a spirit.

"Kinda rude, isn't it?" Dean bellowed. He licked his lip and waited a moment before continuing. "You know our name, but we don't know yours."

The loudness probably wasn't necessary. The cabin was so quiet that Dean could have sworn he could pick out the shallow breaths of each of the three behind him. So, when Sam began to move, the floor boards practically sung. Dean winced, looking over his shoulder in pissed-off inquiry.

Sam shot him a pleading glance, telling him a plan in those two seconds of silent stare-off. Penelope was at his side, his arm around her as the two slid further away from the front wall. Sam tapped the floor once. Dean nodded in response.

He'd almost forgotten the trap door. Leave it to Caleb to install an extra hole in the floor for them to have to salt. In truth, it wasn't so much a door as a few strategically placed planks that could be lifted at once. Caleb hadn't planned for it to be a means for escape, so much as a large place to tuck away his unlicensed and more unusual weapons if the locals stopped in with questions. It was also where Sam had once hidden when he'd gotten into a fight with their dad. Dean had almost throttled the kid until Sam had pointed out that he'd obeyed his big brother - he'd never left the room, after all.

Dean really should have seen the lawyer phase coming after that.

More cold air filled the room when the planks lifted. Dean could see only shadows from where he sat, but, if he remembered the layout correctly, there was a three walled box beneath the floor. It opened up into the tight crawlspace beneath the building. Dean hoped there was still an opening at the backside of the cabin, one large enough for a person to escape through.

Sam held tight to Penelope's arms as she went feet first into the hole, giving the youngest Winchester a quick, thankful glance, before whispering something into his ear. Sam nodded and put a hand on her head, pushing her the rest of the way down. He slid the planks into place and moved to turn back to the FBI agent still strapped down to a chair.

Another shot stopped him.

" _I know what you are, Winchester! You and your brother."_

Dean glared at the window. "Good for you," he snapped.

Something Sam had brought up earlier surfaced, the comment about the cabin being taken care of, the utilities being turned on, as if someone had been using it regularly. No great surprise there. When Caleb had been alive, he'd loaned the place out to plenty of other hunters…Double shit. Their history with their fellow hunters wasn't something to brag about.

Dean suddenly understood how Goldilocks must have felt when the three bears arrived home.

Dean raised his head slightly, trying to get a decent glance at the outside world. All he could see was a gray landscape. He pulled the revolver up with him, before opening his mouth again, hoping the shooter would make the mistake of moving closer so he could take aim.

"If you know we're hunters, then why the hell are you shooting at us?"

" _I don't think a dead man should be too worried about getting shot at_."

Sam had frozen on the floor at those words, watching his brother.

Dean shut his eyes, a deep breath leaving him with nostrils flared. "It isn't what you think. You've got it all wrong." Dean swallowed, suddenly wishing the FBI agent was beside him and feeding him lines. Something told him Spencer would know how he could talk his way out of this one. Dean bit his lip when he realized the shooter moving closer also meant they weren't going to be able to move Reid to the trap door in time to hide him. "Listen, man, we've got a civilian in here with us. We need to talk about this before we both do something we'll regret."

The suggestion was met with silence. Dean swallowed the curse on the tip of his tongue, his voice strong when he opened his mouth again. "Come on, man. We're all in the same trade here, and if you knew about this cabin, then you knew Caleb. I covered his ass more than once. He ever tell you that?"

" _Caleb's dead because of you Winchesters."_

"No." Dean was sure the reply came out as more of a growl. He took another second to calm himself down. " _No_ , Caleb is dead because a demon slit his throat. And, you obviously didn't know the guy too damn well if you think he'd want his friends killed in his frickin' safe house!"

Another moment of silence passed, this one longer, and Dean was sure he'd lost the guy.

" _Throw out your weapons, and we'll talk. You make a wrong move, and I'll put down you, and your civilian, too. Caleb's wishes be damned._ "

Dean wasn't sure why the wording pissed him off so much, but it did. Something told him the hunter didn't really care what the Winchesters had to say, that he was only playing along for kicks. And that he'd probably kill Spencer just as quickly as he'd put down the brothers once the agent saw his face. Dean kept the anger out of his voice. " _You've got a deal,_ " he called, despite himself.

The words meant something else entirely.

Sam caught his brother's eye, made sure he was watching when he slowly reached up and tucked his own pistol behind the old television set. Dean's smile was tight when he tossed his revolver out the window and stood to his feet, his palms faced out in surrender when he slowly stood, putting himself in the shooter's sights.

Dean wondered if heaven was planning to scrape his pieces off the floor when this went south. He saw the reflection off the rifle as the hunter in the woods stood from his crouch, and Dean figured the junkless douche bags upstairs would probably just point and laugh instead.

" _Roy_?" Dean scoffed. "Well, this is just embarrassing."

* * *

"So, we're chasing ghosts?"

The team stood around the desk, each of them trading glances, and though it had been Emily to finally voice the question, it was a sentiment on each of their minds.

Morgan shook his head, surprised as any of them, even though he had been the one to first suspect the Winchesters' involvement. It hadn't been a particularly pleasant experience for the agent, breaking the news to his team over the phone. He'd only arrived back at the station minutes earlier, but he'd found that Hotch had already informed the others of the gas station attendant's confirmation. Morgan didn't particularly like any situation that left this team of professionals, his family, in stunned confusion.

"Looks like," he finally voiced.

The expression on Prentiss's face came closest to a tight, bitter smile. "Guess the hunch paid off, then. Where does this leave us exactly?"

Morgan had actually expected them to fight the theory. It would make sense. Witnesses weren't very reliable in most cases. The others could have laughed at the idea of two dead criminals having a hand in the kidnappings, but, instead, they'd almost beaten him to the punch in bringing up the vehicle, the aliases, the fact that two brothers were checked into the hotel.

"Faking your death once is hard enough, twice is nearly impossible," Rossi said, his voice unusually low, as if the comment was intended only for his own benefit. The older man pinched his mustache between two fingers, lost in thought. "Is there any evidence to suggest that the father, John Winchester, might be alive as well? "

Hotch shook his head, crossing his arms over his chest. "There was no actual confirmation of his death. However, John Winchester's whereabouts don't seem to be related to our case. There's no reason to suspect he might have been involved."

"Then we're still looking at this as if it's one case?" Emily asked.

Hotch didn't have a chance to answer. J.J. stepped into the room and nodded once in Hotch's direction before handing him a stack of files and turning back to a projection screen the department had loaned them. She pressed the remote and it lit up, showing two wanted posters.

"The notorious Sam and Dean Winchester," she introduced with a frown.

"Did Kevin pull these up?" Morgan asked, taking one of the files.

J.J. shook her head. "He didn't have to -- they were easy enough to find. Especially since I was in direct contact with the late Agent Henricksen." The answer, however, didn't seem complete, and Morgan raised a brow at it.

Hotch gave him a glance, sighing. "We'll be bouncing between a few other departmental analysts at the moment. We're having… difficulties working with Kevin Lynch, and we may have to pull him from the case entirely. He's taking Garcia's abduction…"

"Badly," Morgan supplied. He felt that old rage swell up in him at the reminder that Penelope was out there, in danger. Probably hurt. Possibly dead. And now he had to two faces he could direct that anger at. His gaze was dark and steady as he watched the screen. "I don't blame Kevin," he finished.

"You know what I don't get?" Emily tapped the file with one finger, shaking her head in frustration. "I know these two men are dangerous and highly armed, but doesn't it seem a bit odd that they're attempting to control two adults and two children at the same time? Why put yourself in that situation?"

Derek pushed down the instinctive logic that told him that they wouldn't need to control four if they'd already killed two.

He felt Rossi's hand on his elbow, as if the older agent had read his mind. "We need to look at this with fresh eyes, their history in its entirely. If we have all the pieces, the profile will fit together."

Hotch gave him a curt nod and turned back to J.J. "We need to study the Winchesters from the beginning."

J.J. nodded, pressing another button for the next page. "To tell the truth, a good chunk of what Agent Henricksen provided was based on speculation. That's not to say his profiling was entirely wrong, but…"

"Fresh eyes," Rossi repeated, nodding in understanding. "We'll have to sort through it as we go."

Emily pursed her lips. "We don't have time for this," she said, her voice low.

Morgan could understand where Prentiss was coming from. She'd been in the car with the last kid, after all. He'd been her responsibility. Even if no one was blaming her, she was taking Michael's disappearance hard, counting every minute he was gone. Derek ran a hand over his slick head, not sparing her a glance, his concentration once more on the two criminals painting the screen.

"We don't have a choice," he replied.

* * *

Gray clouds had shifted and the afternoon sun was streaming in, warming the cooled cabin, ever so slowly, as the players moved across the board and into their places.

The single room was quiet but for the crunch of his boots against broken glass. He actually wished the footfalls would make even more noise. Though, he hadn't heard a peep yet, Sam was far too aware of the fact that Penelope was hiding beneath the floor boards. The only player going against the rules. One creak and the stranger would panic. All it would take was one absent shot downward and…

Sam wasn't going to think about that. Time to concentrate on the people with a gun still trained on them. Himself included.

He wasn't pleased with the turn of events. Or with his brother's decision to play along with the shooter. And he sure as hell wasn't happy when the shooter had the good sense to have them dump their weapons bag on the porch (Sam had taken a moment to knock the sawed-off under the blankets before he'd complied), but what really put the cherry on top were the words leaving his brother's mouth.

"So, Roy, how you enjoying your life?" Dean asked, a shit-eating grin breaking his face in two. "You know, the life you wouldn't have if we hadn't saved your ass a few years back?" Dean shrugged his left shoulder, favoring it. The move didn't go unnoticed by Sam, and it sent a flush of anger over his face. Roy, whoever-the-hell-he-was, had shot his brother. He'd pay.

"This is business, Winchester."

Dean gave a broken laugh. "Remember what I said about this being a thankless job, Sam? Meet exhibit A."

Roy wasn't taking the bait. The other hunter had barely stepped onto the porch, his body posed, ready to make a dive for it, when he'd asked that "both" brothers show their hands.

Sam had expected more, though he wasn't sure why. The man, wild-eyed and wet lipped, was thin, shorter than Dean, and scraggly, the hat on his head leaving his ears sticking out of his head. Not that you could judge a person based on their appearance. But, this was a human, and if his shots and strategy were any indication, an inferior hunter. Sam could understand his brother's earlier sentiments. This _was_ embarrassing.

"So, you know each other?" Sam asked, directing the question at Dean. Because Sam sure as hell didn't recognize the guy. Which meant Dean had probably met him when he was either very young or after Sam had left for Stanford.

"Oh, yeah, Roy and I go way back," Dean replied, his tone that of a man sitting at the bar, kicking back a shot. If anything, Dean's natural cockiness found more fuel when he was injured. "Only met the one time, but it was a fairly significant one time, wasn't it, Roy?"

"Take a step back," Roy demanded. His rifle was hanging across his back now, traded in for a handgun. He pulled up the smaller weapon, aiming it at Sam, either because his size made him the bigger threat or because he suddenly didn't want to meet Dean's eye. "Back."

Roy pushed forward, cautiously.

Dean took a step back and a step over, trying to put himself in Roy's line of sight again. "See, Sammy, Roy here was chasing a chupacabra that had made its way into mid-Louisiana. Guess the goats weren't worth suckin' there, 'cause it had taken out a little old lady along with the livestock. Dad and I were passing through…gave Roy a hand. 'Course, Roy probably doesn't remember most of it since he was passed out and pretending to be puppy chow at the time…Heard you got yourself a partner to keep you from screwing the pooch again. A Walt Timber, right? Where is old Walt?"

"Shut up!" Roy's jaw tightened and he swung the weapon back on Dean.

"Got a feeling," Dean added, "that your buddy isn't close by or else he'd be here to back you up. How many hours out is he?"

Roy's eyes narrowed, his grip tight on the weapon. "He'll be here soon."

"Fair enough." Dean smirked at the move, pleased with himself. "Still, our dad saved your ass, Roy. This how you repay him?"

"This ain't about him," Roy said. "This is about you two. I know what you've done, and somebody's got to take care of the mess you made. Nothing personal to it. If John were around, he'd do the same."

"That's kinda vague, Roy," Dean replied. "Gotta be more specific. What mess? And how are you planning to clean it up?" There was a dangerous edge to Dean's smile, one Sam could spot with just a glance to his profile. Roy really shouldn't have said that last part. Not if he planned on making it out without losing a few limbs. "Oh, and what the hell is it you think you'd do like our dad?"

Sam slid his foot back, gaining a better stance. The options at the moment were pretty clear. Spare knife in the boot, sawed-off on the cot to his right, or the revolver behind the television behind them. Taking advantage of the options was the hard part, where Dean's go-to plan of "chat 'em up until they're sloppy" came into play. A part of Sam wondered if he needed the weapons. If there was some other way to handle Roy, some other use of his _strengths_ … it worked on demons. He'd moved things before. With the practice Ruby had been giving him, maybe he could… Sam squashed the thought. No. _No._ He wouldn't try that. Not again. Especially not in front of Dean.

It happened before Sam had a chance to realize what his step backwards had done: Roy's eyes found Reid. The FBI agent who was still strapped to his chair, defenseless. _Crap._

Reid was watching the three of them, his constant curiosity showing in the fold of his brow. Even though it was chilly, there was sweat glittering from the agent's temples. Sam suddenly felt a wave of guilt rush over him. The guy, the one he'd been shooting dirty looks at for most of the day, was probably scared out of his mind right about now.

"Told you we had a civilian in here," Dean said, stopping Roy from sweeping his gun Reid's way. The glint in Dean's eye was begging the shoddy hunter to move forward, just a little further, so that he'd be within lunging distance.

Roy lowered his head some, more wired than he had been earlier. His eyes quickly traced the floor, as if looking for a devil's trap before they shot back to the Winchesters. "If he's a civilian, why's he tied up?"

"He's just some guy who tried to report us," Sam answered, before his brother had a chance. "Got in our way while we were on a case, so we're keeping him here until we can get out of dodge. He's not a threat."

"Shit." The word had slipped from Roy. He chewed his cheek, losing some of the confidence. "Shit," he muttered again. His hand stayed steady, though, raising to train on Sam's forehead.

Sam realized where the rush of sudden panic was coming from. The idiot could be identified now. "We warned you there was a civilian in here," Sam bit. "You're the one who chose to ignore that fact."

"He's seen me," Roy said. His right arm twitched, as if begging to move, begging to point the gun back at the man tied to a chair.

Sam could feel Dean's body tighten, ready to make a move. Because in one tic, this guy had just went from threatening to hurt his brother to threatening to kill his brother and an innocent along with him. Sam felt his breath catch in his throat. Dean would sacrifice himself in an instant to stop Roy from making that move, of that Sam was certain.

_God, Dean, just give me more time._

"You said we could talk!" Sam snapped, hoping it would break Roy from his thoughts. "Why the hell did you try to shoot us?"

"Fine." Roy turned his attention back to the brothers, raising his chin, suddenly confident in himself again. He tilted his head in Dean's direction. "You want to talk? Start by explaining how he's alive. Walt knows for a fact that Dean Winchester had a blow-out with some big-time demon 'bout last Spring. Killed and dragged down to Hell, is what they're saying. Lots 'a hunters been reporting back about you, too, Sam, how you were throwin' yourself around afterward, acting dangerous. And keeping strange company…"

Sam's back straightened. His glare alone was enough to push back most men, but Roy was too stupid or too stubborn to be stopped by a glare.

And Dean…

Dean started laughing.

"Christ, Roy!" Dean slapped his stomach, throwing his head back in amusement. He cleared his throat, as if trying to hold the chuckles inside. " _Seriously_? Seriously, is that what this is about?"

Sam was pretty sure he looked as puzzled as Roy, but the other hunter was staring at Dean now, even if the gun was still pointed at Sam.

Sam could feel his adrenaline building, his body humming and ready to make a move as Dean became the distraction. He held tight for a moment, waiting for Dean to string the guy further along.

"Dude, you're only half right." Dean was grinning. It was the same smile he wore at the pool tables. "There _was_ a hell of a demon on my ass. Had a hard time shaking her, too, but we did. Faked my death, as a matter of fact. By the time she figured it out, I was long gone. Sammy and I had to keep separate for a while until we could take out her minions, but we were doin' fine." His green eyes lowered when he paused, the humor all but lost. "That was, until some dumbass with a cause decided I was one smokin' hot zombie."

Sam was ready.

The gunshot was a surprise. Roy had moved quickly, giving the Winchesters the first glimpse of his own abilities as a hunter. He put two bullets into the floor at Sam's feet, missing his boots by inches. Sam jumped back, his hands up in surrender, the lunge forgotten.

Roy had the gun raised again already, still on Sam, aimed far from his shoes this time. There was a grimace at his lips that said as clear as day that he was proud to be responsible for Sam's shocked expression. "I said _don't_ move."

"No."

The word was heartbreaking and had dripped from Reid's mouth like a tear. Sam shot him a look, his own eyes as wide, if not as wounded as the agent's.

_Penelope._

"Roy," Sam breathed the name. He knew what the agent had thought, too, that there was a chance the tech girl was somewhere beneath those wooden planks, bleeding out. Sam let out a broken sound, too hard to be a sob, and glared back at Roy. " _That_ ," he said, "was a mistake."

Roy's finger twitched, his shoulder hitching. He ignored Sam entirely. "Sure, Dean," he replied, his voice calmer than it had been. Arrogant and dead-set. "That's a possibility, I suppose, but it doesn't change the rest…it doesn't change the part where Sam's been playing around with evil, does it?"

Sam felt his blood turn to ice. Just for a moment, he thought Roy might actually know about his new habit.

"You let loose the demons at the devil's gate, didn't you, Sam? You're working with them… That's what Walt says, and I believe him." Roy didn't turn Dean's way when he addressed him. "I'm sorry, Dean. I hate to do this, but even if you're telling the truth, I can't let your brother go. And, I certainly can't let your _civilian_ go until I know he's not one of your new demon buddies." Roy shook his head, his arm raising a half inch. "I really am sorry. Nothing personal," he assured.

The _thud_ wasn't the sound of a trigger being pulled.

Roy's eyes rolled back into his head, his knees giving out beneath him. Sam dove for the gun before he even realized what had happened. Feeling the flesh-warmed metal against his palm, he glanced up from his spot on the floor in shock.

Penelope was standing a few feet from where Roy had been. She let the piece of firewood in her hands fall to the floor and took a step back, moving her dirty fingers up to her lips. Silent tears slid down her face and her body shook with a tremor that Sam was certain wasn't caused by the half-frozen mud caked onto her knees and elbows.

Dean whistled, impressed enough to circle to her side for a better view of the damage. He was holding his arm tight against his body. "Damn, Penny. You're like a hot Rambo."

Penelope's chin shook as she tried to control her voice. "Just," she begged, "please, t-tell me he's not dead."

Roy was already stirring, though. Sam straddled his back before he could get to his feet, holding the other hunter's arms against his spine at a painfully awkward angle. With a grunt, the youngest Winchester gestured for someone to hand him a few zip-ties from his bag. Roy let loose a slew of muttered curses, but Sam only smiled up at Penelope in return, looking a little dazed by the turn of events.

"Are you _sure_ you're just a computer technician?"

"Technical analyst," she softly corrected.

* * *


	8. In for a Penny, In for a Pound

The blood was prettier than the tears, but it dried too quickly, spread out too thin. Ricky ran one hand over the other, scratching away what was caught in the crevices between his fingers. It rolled off the skin like sweat and dirt, in small, gummy balls. Made him itch, too.

"Least they're both boys this time," Ricky observed.

His voice seemed loud in the otherwise empty room. Past the closest wall, someone was crying. Ricky couldn't tell which of the children it was making a ruckus. They'd been put together during the last lesson. A few minutes in the same room would make the coming separation hurt worse. If they took to the lesson. If little Michael and little Tommy had learned anything at all…Ricky could never tell if it was soaking in until the very last part.

"Doesn't really matter," Glenn replied. "Not if they aren't right."

His arrival was a tide of ice water over Ricky's clothed back. There was some comfort found in the chill it left behind, but Ricky pushed those thoughts away, a manic gleam to his bright eyes.

"But we decided they were _perfect_." Ricky licked his lips, trembling against the cold when his big brother's image flickered, reappearing closer, the scent of atmosphere he brought with him overwhelming. "These two—we can use these two. I'm sure of it."

Ricky's finger slipped beneath the collar of his shirt, reaching for the chain at his neck. The ring felt heavy against his chest, and he wanted to put it on. Glenn caught his wrist. "Not while your hands are dirty," the ghost hissed, glaring at the red stain. The hardness of his expression was lost in a moment though, the grasp loosening, a thumb drawing circles on the other man's knuckles. "Now, don't you worry, Ricky. I'd never let anything happen to you, would I?"

Ricky slowly shook his head. "I just…I just think we're running out of time."

Glenn smiled, looking young. Looking almost alive, despite the gray of his hue, the molt of his lips. "Everything'll be alright again," he assured. "It will. But not until we find the perfect pair."

"And if the boys aren't it?"

Glenn's teeth looked sharp, yellowed, in the faint light. His image flickered again as he leaned in close. "Then, we'll do what we've always done. We'll teach them their lesson. We'll teach them what brotherhood is about. We'll teach them what they did _wrong_. Then we'll find two more, and teach them, too. We've still got time, Ricky. _You've_ still got time to get this right, for both our sakes. In the end, it'll be worth the effort, I promise."

Ricky mirrored the grin, his worry lost. "You know best."

"Big brothers always do."

* * *

"Okay, you're fine, everything's fine," Penelope muttered, her fingers trembling as she raised the rag to her face, scrubbing at a spot of mud she'd missed. She tried to _not_ concentrate on her own image staring back at her through the mirror, because she was fairly certain she was two shades too pale, eyes red-rimmed from tears. A shaking, sputtering, panicked mess who'd been hogging the bathroom for what had to be nearly forty minutes. "You're a-okay, Penny. Crazy Guy the Third isn't dead. You didn't kill him, and he didn't kill you. A-okay…"

And she wondered why she was standing here, back in this cabin, in the first place. Despite her insistence to the contrary, Reid had made it clear, very much so, that he wanted her to run if she could, and Sam had given her the perfect opportunity with the trap door. But, she'd hesitated, first to wait and see if the brothers would send Spencer down, too. Then, when they didn't, to listen through the slatted walls and thin windows of the shack. Roy-gun-happy, the Winchesters seemed to know, but knowledge alone hadn't made him any less of a threat.

Still, hobbling to favor one leg and chilled by the winter air, she could have made off. Found the nearest road. By now the team would be on the lookout. They or the locals would find her quickly. The distraction was definitely to her advantage.

Instead, she'd found a tarp-covered stack of firewood and, ignoring the pile of guns on the front porch, lifted her own blunt weapon free. Instinct took over the moment she realized that this stranger, Roy, was going to shoot. That he wasn't going to leave anyone behind. Not Sam, not Dean…not Spencer. She'd spent a middle-school semester in softball (torture, as she'd regaled to J.J.), and put the memory of swinging a bat to good use. Home run.

"I can't believe that happened."

She'd brought a chunk of wood to a gunfight. She let that thought settle and nearly hyperventilated.

The sound of the knock at the bathroom door made her jump. She gripped at her chest, taking a breath, and reminding herself that the noise wasn't the ring of a gunshot. "Y-yes?"

" _Hey, Penny, you decent?"_

Penelope recognized the rasp of Dean's voice and forced herself to suck in another calm breath. She wanted to tell him to go away, but that wasn't what left her mouth: "When am I ever?"

Dean chuckled, opening the door, and peaking in, cautiously. "I hear it's polite to ask," he noted, catching her eye. For a moment, he seemed shaken by her appearance, but he covered it with a smooth smile. "You were pretty bad ass back there," he reminded her. "Definitely scored one for team Hot Geek."

"Is that guy…?" Penelope swallowed, squeezing the wet towel in her hand. Despite herself, stepped back, nearly collapsing onto the toilet's lowered lid. "Is he still out there?"

Dean shook his head. "Nah, Roy doesn't seem to play well with others, so Sammy and I put him in the shed out back."

Penelope's eyes widened. "He's still alive, though, right?"

Dean held her gaze, the humor gone from his eyes, as if he heard the question circling her mind, _"Did you kill him while he was unconscious_?" He glanced over his shoulder, as if checking on someone in the other room, and slipped a little further into the bathroom, letting the door close behind him. Penelope knew she should be scared, backed into a four-foot room with, well, _The_ Dean Winchester, but, instead, she was hanging on his expression, watching for any slip. Anything that would tell her if his answer was a lie.

"Roy's still alive," Dean finally replied. He dropped down to one knee, holding his right arm tight against his side. "How's your ankle?"

But, Penelope was starring at his arm, tracing it back up to his neck, chin, eyes. He was a shade paler himself, and his shirt had been changed, the lump of a bandage just barely visible beneath one sleeve. "You're pretty calm for someone who was shot," she answered.

Dean's lips curled. "Oh, hell, that? Bee sting. Sam patched me up." He winked. "Yeah, I know, bad day. First you get shot at by an idiot, then you miss seeing me with my shirt off."

Penelope snorted and slapped his good arm playfully. "I always miss all the fun."

Then, she froze, eyes wide as she recapped on what she'd just done. To Mr. Murder/Torture/Grave Desecration. She felt panic building up again and swallowed it down, realizing the most disturbing part of it all was that she wasn't more worried about setting him off.

If Dean noticed, he didn't let her know, still playing along with the flirt. "I'll get you tickets to the next show," he assured, eyes back on her foot. For the first time, she noticed the roll of Ace bandages in his other hand. "Crap, I should have done this earlier. Still not broken, though. That's a plus."

His prodding sent a shock of pain all the way up to her knee, and she winced. Her foot was swelling into cankle-grade territory and slightly discolored. It was a wonder she would walk on it. "Wasn't that bad this morning," she said, watching him loosely pull the roll around her ankle with ease. "But I kind of slipped in the mud trying to find my way out the trap door. I might have made it worse."

"I'll get some ice out of the cooler. I guess this is the reason you decided not to make a run for it?" Dean paused a moment before shrugging off his own comment. "Personally, I'm kind of glad you came back, not that we didn't already have a plan for taking out Roy, of course."

Penelope caught the smile in his voice and rolled her eyes. "Sure you did."

His movements were practiced, quick, and she considered his skills and Sam's "patch" of the bullet wound. The two men had to take care of many injuries, apparently. It wasn't something that Reid had brought up. "Did Sam give you stitches?"

Dean nodded, still preoccupied by the task. "Kid has a good bedside manner when he's not pissed at you. Too bad for me."

Penelope forced a crooked smile, but it wavered. "I heard…I heard that man say something about demons. Does he believe…I mean, does he do what you do? Look for those kinds of things?"

Dean, finished, stood, holding her gaze. He seemed to be mulling it over. "Yeah," he finally replied. "He _believes_ in the crazy crap we believe in. That's what you wanted to ask, right? Listen, Penny…" He blinked, shook his head, denying himself something. "I could sit here all day, talk to about monsters and ghosts and demons. But I'm not going to, because I like you too much to get you wrapped up in this crap."

It was the final word, and Penelope took it. "You want to know what I believe, Dean? I believe you're not a murderer."

He smiled back, but the expression was strained, weary. "Just a nutjob?"

"Maybe not even that," she said, unsure if she meant it.

Dean shrugged it off, pretending not to hear, and held the door open for her. Before she could make it into the other room, he leaned in close, whispering a reply. "It's okay, Penny. Even I think we're crazy sometimes. Life would be easier that way."

Then he sauntered past her, leading her back into the main room like she was a guest instead of a hostage. Penelope spotted Reid quickly enough, in his usual seat after a round of stretching his legs, his eyes wide as he scanned Penelope, looking for any injuries she might have received since her long trip to the bathroom. Sam stepped in front of him, blocking his view and gesturing for Penelope to sit down so he could secure her restraints.

"It won't be for much longer," he assured.

She shivered, despite herself, before plopping down for the youngest Winchester. Sam went to work on her upper arms, and she couldn't help but notice how his hands were still stained pink from Dean's blood.

"We've got a few hours longer we can stay here," Dean said, stepping back to their work table, his attention on getting their notes back in order and sweeping the glass out of their way.

At some point, one of the two had tacked a blanket over the shot-out window to keep the winter air outside. It didn't help much. The room was still frigid, even though the heater was glowing at full blast. Penelope imagined the man, Roy, was probably freezing out in the shed. If Dean had been telling the truth about him being alive and all.

Sam finished up with Penelope and stood, shooting his brother a glance. "Before Roy's partner arrives?"

Dean nodded. "My guess is that if Walt were any closer, he'd have told Roy to wait before charging in guns a-blazing. So, like I said, a couple hours. At least."

"Then where are we supposed to go?" Sam huffed, stepping around the still-wet floor where someone had tried to quickly mop up the splatter of blood. "We can't very well drag these two to a cheap motel and pick up the hunt again."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, Sam, looks like you're going to get your wish. We'll ditch this hunt if we haven't found the bastards by then." Then he glanced back over his shoulder at the pair, winking at Penelope in a way which clearly said that wasn't an option. Penelope wasn't sure if the gesture was supposed to calm her nerves. It didn't. He must have realized as much, and his voice softened. "Either way, when we leave this cabin, you two are going free. You can go back to your fellow g-men and chase down all the bad guys whose names don't start with Win."

Penelope snorted. "Nice."

"I try."

* * *

Morgan leaned back in his chair, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to indulge the exhaustion tugging at his mind for the past half hour. He'd never been the type to be satisfied with desk work, no matter how fruitful, but desk work that didn't seem to hold any promise? It was beyond frustrating, being stuck here while four people were missing. Frustration, though, was somehow better than the pure terror of stopping in his tracks and taking the time to think about what the Winchesters could be doing to Garcia and Reid, or those poor kids. As soon as he felt the nudging of that deep-seeded fear, he sat up straight again, shaking off his weariness and snatching up the top paper folder again.

The team was missing something. They were missing _several_ somethings, which was the problem. John Winchester had done an expert job of keeping his sons moving throughout their childhood, but, even still, the team should have had enough info to scrape together another, more useful, profile, if only the actions of the brothers weren't so damn contradictory.

A stack of papers slapped together, and Morgan raised a brow at the sound, realizing it had come from Rossi, who'd just slammed down his own pile of files after striding back into the room.

"This has got to be the most aggravating criminal history I've ever come tried to gather." He waved his hand, catching Hotch and Prentiss's attention as well. "I just got off the phone with Det. Diana Ballard."

Prentiss cocked her head, then flipped back a page in her file. "The same Det. Ballard who arrested the Winchesters in Baltimore?"

"The one and only," Rossi said, scowling. "I wondered why Agent Henricksen didn't have more than the transcript of Dean Winchester's confession, since his people had obviously attempted to contact the Baltimore office. Now I know why."

Hotch frowned. "I assume from your reaction that Det. Ballard wasn't helpful."

"I expected her to not be very forthcoming since, from what I understood, the Winchesters' escape, on top of her late partner's dirty laundry coming out, was considered quite the embarrassment for her department. What I _didn't_ expect was for her to sound so _pleased_ when I confirmed that the brothers were still alive."

Morgan found himself being drawn back into the conversation. "Pleased?"

Rossi nodded along, as if he didn't quite believe it either. "She laughed. In _relief_. As if that wasn't strange enough, she clammed up the moment I suggested the Winchesters were our serial killers. I didn't get another word from her that wasn't directly from the report."

Hotch's brow wrinkled in thought. "Then we can assume that Agent Henricksen's conclusion that the brothers had somehow persuaded her to aid them was more than speculation. Which is, unfortunately, becoming a pattern. There are conflicting reports surrounding each of their arrests and attempted arrests."

"No kidding." J.J. said, striding back into the room. The pinched expression on her face mirrored Rossi's. "If you think that's frustrating, try getting a detailed account of Dean Winchester's 'death' in St. Louis. I made some calls and it turned out that the corpse identified as his had already been exhumed once, after the bank incident in Milwaukee, and it was, and I quote, 'suffering from an extreme case of advanced decomposition'. Somehow it was so contaminated that they couldn't even pull DNA off it. This case just gets stranger and stranger. Why haven't we ever been put on their trail before?"

Hotch sighed, and Morgan caught it, the way the man was avoiding their eyes. "Good question," Morgan said, frowning.

"Truthfully, up until a year ago, Agent Henricksen had all but taken over their cases." He shook his head, hesitant to continue. "And, as of right now, the Section Chief doesn't know we're officially pursuing the Winchesters. She believes we're still working with our original unsub profile."

Morgan leaned across the table. "Hotch, are you saying Strauss doesn't want us following this lead?"

Hotch leveled him with a stare. "I'm saying she suggested we not pursue dead suspects, and she reacted with some hostility when I suggested otherwise."

"That doesn't sound like Erin," Rossi added, sitting down with the rest of the group. "Is she getting orders from higher up?"

"I can't say for certain." Hotch shook his head. "And frankly, we don't have time to discuss it with her further. We need to concentrate on finding the Winchesters. I don't need to remind you all, but our window is closing."

Morgan felt a chill run down his spine. He knew what Hotch meant—their time was running out if they had a chance in Hell of finding all four of their victims alive. Whatever rage he'd felt brewing was quickly squashed by the need to get back to work. Only, he still didn't know what direction to take this manhunt in…

"What do we know for sure?" he whispered. He cleared his throat, speaking louder. "The Winchesters had to have been in town longer that Pierce, the motel clerk, can account for, which would make sense, since obviously they have a secondary location where they're keeping their victims."

Prentiss pursed her lips. "True, since that's why we originally presumed they were locals, but—"

The door to the small office opened once more, Sheriff McKinney standing in the frame, as if he felt he were intruding. The young man looked haggard, aged a good ten years over the last few days. Morgan realized that he hadn't even spoken to the sheriff for the past few hours, not since he and his men had spread out, looking for witnesses who might have spotted the Impala.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, but I just had an interesting conversation with the statey who was in the car with Agent Prentiss when the Gravitt boy was abducted. He seemed to recall a similar case where two siblings were murdered a few years back, over in Bomer County—that's 'bout two hours from here. I had their sheriff fax over the file." He reached out, handing the file folder to Hotch. "You're all gonna want to take a look at this."

A crash sounded from outside the door and with it came raised voices. "Damn it," the sheriff muttered. He shook his head, gesturing for the agents to stay. "The Gravitt boys' dad is back—drunk as a skunk again. I need to handle this."

He shut the door behind him, leaving the team silent as Agent Hotchner poured over the paperwork. The minute stretched on forever before he closed the folder and slid it to across the table to Morgan. Morgan snatched it up. As soon as his eyes skimmed the report inside, he realized why the Unit Chief had remained so quiet.

Prentiss shifted, trying to read over Morgan's shoulder. "Hotch?" she asked, one brow raised.

"It appears there might have been more than six murders committed by our unsubs."

Morgan swallowed, taking in the bare facts. Two siblings dead, just as the sheriff had said, tortured and dumped in the same manner as their current victims. Gruesome photos of the youngest of the pair had been found, but the locals at the time hadn't known what to make of them. They'd been found nearly two years ago. His eyes shot up as he passed the info on to Rossi.

"This doesn't make any sense—why start two years ago, and then come back now and commit multiple murders all in one small town?"

Rossi shook his head. "This doesn't fit what we know about the Winchesters…They're practically nomadic. Wait… Did you notice this date?"

Hotch nodded, running a finger over his bottom lip. "Based on estimated time of death, Sam and Dean Winchester couldn't have committed that crime."

Morgan flipped through the other file just to be sure. "Because they were reportedly holding up the City Bank of Milwaukee at the time…What the hell?" He shook his head, adamantly denying what the facts told them. "This doesn't necessarily mean that…John Winchester could have been began the…" But even as he said it, he caught Hotch's eye and saw the doubt lying there.

"What if there's a monster?"

Morgan blinked, his attention turning back to J.J., who was propped against the end of the table, staring into space. She brought her attention back to earth, as if she'd just then realized that she'd spoken aloud. "Uh—not a real monster, I mean…"

Prentiss snapped her fingers, smiling up at her. "Of course—not a real monster, but a _perceived_ monster! Most of Henricksen's profile might have been speculation at best, but based on what we know, it appears the Winchesters really are delusional. They believe they're hunting monsters. If you grew up looking for the boogieman, what would you think of these brutalized bodies being found?"

Rossi cocked his head. "Then there might actually be a serial killer, or multiple serial killers, who fit our original profile, and the Winchesters are here to find them? Well…I don't have a better idea. But, are we saying the unsubs we're after don't have Reid and Garcia?"

Morgan felt something in his chest jerk. He let out a shaky breath. "They're alive." The words pulled the eyes of the others. "Think about it—the contradictory statements…If the Winchesters don't see a person as something evil, then they try to protect them. That's why so many witnesses have reported being helped by the Winchesters."

"Reid and Garcia's chances are much better now," Hotch agreed. "It's far more likely that Reid identified one of the brothers at the motel…If they're not our unsubs, then it's likely the Winchesters abducted our people because they wanted to continue the hunt, not because they wanted to hurt them."

Rossi nodded. "That _is_ good news. But, it still means we've got two young boys who are in immediate danger. We need to find the real unsubs, and fast—the Winchesters might already be ahead of us."

* * *

Reid couldn't stop staring at the bullet hole in the floor, as if it were to blame for the last hour and a half of his life making no sense. As much as he wanted to turn his brain off, forget his sole weapon, the profile, for a bit, he couldn't, which was why he found himself focusing on the shattered wooden planks at the center of the floor. When he finally made the conscious decision to lift his eyes from them, he moved his attention to Penelope's silhouette.

She was slightly slack-jawed, her head tilted to one side as she watched the talk show playing on the local channel, being periodically interrupted by news segments. Her foot was propped up on the stool, a towel filled with melting ice placed on her ankle. Something about her was different. She was more resolved to their situation; whether that was a positive or negative thing, Reid wasn't sure. What he did know what that Penelope had believed Dean when he'd told them they'd be freed soon.

Reid wasn't so sure, but he wanted to believe it. He could even rationalize why the Winchesters would let them go, but he didn't think the decision was set in stone simply because of the unpredictability of the situation. Point in hand, over an hour ago, a strange man had appeared and threatened to kill him. A man who also believed in demons.

Roy believed himself to be a hunter.

Reid didn't want that fact to sink in, because it led to so many questions he knew he couldn't ask without making Sam Winchester angry with him again… And yet, Sam had tried to free Penelope during the exchange with the other hunter, and Sam had reacted with that now-familiar anger when he'd thought Penelope had been hurt by Roy. Reid couldn't ignore the protective reaction from both the brothers. They'd tried to save their hostages, despite the danger to themselves.

Reid wasn't sure what to make of it, but he certainly couldn't shrug off their behavior because it was convenient.

He glanced away from Penelope, realizing that she was purposely not paying him any mind, and spotted Sam behind the table, working on a map. It was fairly close to the type of geographic profile Reid would have created, and he'd admit it was impressive. Dean was sitting on the bed, packing salt into shotgun rounds like he'd been doing it most of his life. Reid was afraid that might be true.

"Are there many hunters?"

Both brothers looked up with dazed expressions, as if they'd forgotten Reid existed. Neither had spoken to the agent in over thirty minutes, keeping the chatter low and between themselves, as if they were for some reason hesitant to ask for his opinion now. Maybe they were afraid Reid would start asking questions again. They weren't wrong.

"Uh. Not really," Dean answered, and quickly went back to work, ignoring the warning glance Sam shot his way. "You hungry, thirsty?"

Reid shook his head, noting the deflection. He couldn't stop himself from trying again. "Did you fake your death a third time as well?"

Dean dropped the shell in his hand, spilling salt over his legs. "Huh?"

But his expression was clear enough. He'd heard the agent, and his eyes answered more efficiently than his mouth.

"Roy said you reportedly died last Spring." _And you lied when you told him you'd faked it._ Reid shivered, and tried to hide the fact that he'd seen Dean flinch. The implications were clear enough. Whatever happened to Dean, whatever that supposed 'demon' who'd been after him had done... It was what was causing the man to have nightmares. It was what had Sam behaving like the dominant of the pair. And, it was what had changed between the brothers.

Most disturbingly, whatever had happened to him, Dean equated it to dying.

Dean forced a chuckled. "You and that super memory of yours... Can you really remember everything we said?"

Reid realized Dean was going to brush the comment off. He was prepared to continue when Sam shot up out of his seat, grabbing Dean's attention.

Sam was breathless with excitement. "The earliest case—the one we dismissed because it didn't quite fit…"

"Back up, college boy. Which case?" Dean put down his tools and stepped across the room. "Did you find something?"

Reid didn't have to try hard to listen in, and he knew without looking that Penelope was craning her neck to watch the pair. Sam was too caught up in the information to restrain himself, and Reid was more than pleased to hear what he had to say—he hadn't managed to get the brothers to bring up the earlier cases they'd mentioned the previous night.

"Okay, remember when we put together that those earlier cases were related to the current ones? Well, I found that report from eight years ago, and we decided it didn't fit in because the two siblings, a teenage boy and his sister, were killed at separate times, separate places. Remember?"

"Yeah…but it didn't—"

"I know we banked on it being a coincidence but…" He lifted the map up for Dean. "The other early cases, the ones that started about two years ago, took place a couple counties away and were spaced out by months, almost like these guys were trying to keep a low profile."

"Keep the attention away from this area," Dean agreed.

"Exactly. But when they sped up their kills, each pair of victims was from this county, and their remains were left close to Attalla. That case from eight years ago was in Attalla, too, though, and the neighborhood it took place in is at the dead center of all the dump sites."

Dean made a face. "Kind of a sloppy job of covering their tracks isn't it?"

"Well, maybe…but we know they specifically chose their victims, right? They studied them, so they didn't have much of a choice when it came to where to kidnap them from…"

Reid straightened, following along. "The dump sites would have been entirely _their_ choice, though. Was there any other reason you disregarded the case from eight years ago?"

The room went silent. Dean and Sam shared look, as if holding a silent conversation. Finally, they seemed to reach an agreement.

Sam cleared his throat. "It was a teenage boy and a young woman. Siblings. Both murdered within two days of one another. No one was ever charged. That much fit, but they were killed separately, bodies left where the murders took place, about two miles apart, and there wasn't any sign that any pictures or video of the torture were left behind."

Reid leaned forward as much as the rope holding his upper arms would allow. "But there was definitely torture?"

Dean frowned. "The article we found wasn't very descriptive, but all the keywords were there in that quaint, small-town journalist kind of way."

"And the youngest sibling was killed first?" Reid asked. When he saw Sam nod, he chewed his bottom lip in thought. "I think you're right. I think the case must be related."

It was as if someone had flipped a switch. Reid wasn't sure when it had happened, but at some point he had quit believing the Winchesters were the unsubs they were looking for…Garcia had been right, they weren't good guys exactly, and they needed to be apprehended for their own safety. Also, they were still _severely_ delusional. But, all his profiling knowledge kept pointing him away from the pair of brothers, and he'd been denying what now seemed apparent because he'd thought it far too much of a coincidence that the Winchesters were still in town. But it _wasn't_ a coincidence at all. Like they had told him, they were here to hunt the bad guys.

Only, the brothers thought the bad guys were monsters instead of people.

Sam gave a tight grin. "See. I'm right."

Dean shook his head. "Sure, if the FBI guy agrees with you, suddenly he's worth listening to. Typical." At his brother's glare, he lifted his hands up in surrender. "Not that I disagree. So, do we check out the places where the two were killed first? Eight years is a long time. The area's probably changed by now."

"Actually I was thinking I'd check out the surviving family. Their address is listed in the phone book."

Dean stiffened when the words sunk in. "You mean, ' _we'll_ check out the surviving family,' right?"

Sam sighed. "Look, when we were taking Roy around back, I spotted his truck a few miles up the drive. The locals are looking for two guys together in the Impala. They won't notice me in an old pick-up."

"So, I'll stoop down in the seat. Whatever."

"Dean, we can't just leave Spencer and Penelope here alone. What if Walt shows up early?"

"Oh, come on! If anything, I should get to take the truck into town, and _you_ can stay here on babysitting duty."

"But, _I'm_ the one who found the connection!" Sam snapped. He grimaced, as if stopping himself from shouting. When his voice returned, it was still strained, abet not as loud. "Listen. You stay here, keep at the research, and I'll report back. If I find anything, I can come back and pick you up. If you'll just let me go, we can finish this damn job and be out of here before nightfall."

Dean grew quiet. "You sure that's the only reason you want to go alone?"

Reid felt the tension in the room grow tenfold.

Sam cocked his head. "What exactly is that supposed to mean?"

For a moment, Reid thought Dean was going to shrug it off, but, instead, he widened his stance, as if preparing for a fight. "You sure this isn't about meeting up with your buddy Ruby? I saw you checking your phone, Sam. She call you?"

Ruby. Reid had heard that name already, but he still had no clue as to who she was. Obviously a point of disagreement between the men—perhaps Sam's girlfriend? Such a relationship would definitely be conflicting with their lifestyles, but it seemed as if there were more to it… Reid's eyes narrowed as he took in Sam's enraged expression. The younger brother was trying to put on a front of mere frustration, but there was more to his twitchy movements and flared nostrils. Shame. Definitely shame.

Reid considered his behavior. The moodswings, the nervousness, could all be explained by the situation itself, but Reid was beginning to wonder if Sam Winchester wasn't also an addict, possibly one in need of a fix. Reid knew exactly what that felt like, and if he was right, Dean had good reason to doubt his brother's reasoning.

"You can't just trust me, can you?" Sam almost growled the words.

Reid could practically feel Penelope's nerves setting on edge as the woman caught his eye, obviously concerned with the brothers' behavior.

Dean looked away. "I don't know."

The words seemed to freeze Sam in place. He just stared at his brother, as if expecting more. When nothing came, he shook his head, smiling bitterly.

"I don't know how much more I can…" His voice drifted. "Screw you, Dean. I'm going out. To do our damn job."

He slammed the door behind him, leaving Dean still standing by the table.


	9. A Tale of Two Brothers

Sam could picture it as it once was, daffodil yellow and charming on its tiny lot, but now the house was a ruin thanks to years of neglect, left forgotten on a dead end street. Its paint was chipped and molded a pale green that even the pink, dusk sky above couldn't warm, and its old flower beds were broken mounds of overgrowth. The metal roof peeked at the front, a crooked vent in the attic above a single broken window at the ground floor, and a small, tucked away porch to one side hid the front door in shadows. Not very inviting. Also, not very occupied.

It took Sam less than ten minutes to figure as much out. Briars clung to his jeans as he tugged himself away from the side of the house, sighing at the barren rooms he'd spied through the other windows. Of course it couldn't be easy, could it? The condemned building notice on the creaking screen door had been his first clue that perhaps the Norris family's address wasn't exactly up to date, but he'd still made a round, hoping for signs of life inside.

Or death.

The EMF moaned miserably from his jacket pocket, and he fumbled to shut it off again. The heavy cables hanging over the property weren't helping with any readings the house was putting off. _If_ there was anything to find here in the first place. A big IF, he was beginning to think. He was still certain that whatever happened to those siblings eight years ago had to be related to the other deaths, and the faster he could prove it and stop the murders the faster they could leave this mess behind.

He tromped back through the side of the property, avoiding the slight vibration from his other pocket. He already knew who was calling, and he wasn't ready to answer yet. Before he could get back to the road, he felt eyes on him, and cursed himself for getting distracted. He'd been careful, parking Roy's truck around the corner in fear that the FBI had put together the same clues, but he'd found no sign of their presence when he'd arrived.

Sam raised his head slightly, glancing over the brim of the stained ball cap he'd found in Roy's truck. His instincts hadn't been wrong. The closest neighbor was a few lots down and currently sitting on the steps of his front porch, a cigarette at his lips, his squinting eyes raking over Sam. The neighbor looked close to Sam's age, even if the mechanic's uniform and prickly blond scruff overtaking his face aged him another decade. Mostly, Sam noticed that the man didn't appear to have his phone out or be in any hurry to call the police. The option of walking on past with a nod and driving off was still on the table; even if the guy reported him, the local law enforcement had too much on their plates to make it here before Sam was in the wind. But Sam couldn't stifle his curiosity.

Sam approached, letting out a slow breath as he tried to think like Dean. Somehow, his brother had always been better at picking up their dad's lessons on small talk as a means of blending in.

"Hey, man, think we'll get any more snow?" Sam asked, mentally chiding himself for the awkward opening. The weather, really?

The guy tapped his cigarette on the porch rail and shrugged. "Doubt it. Wasn't even enough dust to piss on this mornin', but I'm sure the store's done out of milk and bread." He chuckled under his breath and jutted his chin at the yellow house. "You interested in the Trapp place? 'Cause the city's threatening to burn it down if no one steps up soon."

"No kidding? Has it been empty a while then?"

"Years, I guess. I mean, the guy who owns it hasn't actually lived there in a long time. Saw him checking on it a few weeks back, but he didn't seem to care about the notices. Hell, if I was Ricky, I wouldn't care either." He took a long drag off his cigarette before stomping out the butt on the steps. "I'd let it rot."

"Ricky?"

"That's who you'll need to get in touch with if you want to buy the place. Good luck with that, though." The man opened his mouth to say something else but hesitated. "Hey, I know who you are…"

Sam's eyes widened slightly.

The man snapped his fingers. "Yeah, you're that guy from the billboards in Birmingham. Fella who buys crap houses and fixes them up to sell, right?"

Sam opened his mouth to disagree, but realized he might be able to get what he wanted through gossip alone. He tilted his head, smiling. "Not exactly. I just look for properties for my brother."

"Lot of money in that?"

"Pays the bills," Sam said. "Hey, man, just guy to guy, the place looks stable, nice foundation, but the people who pointed me in this direction said it had a bit of a dark past. Said there was a family that was killed in it?"

The mechanic's expression turned sour. "Not in it," he said, as if that was somehow more scandalous. "I mean, shit, brother, that would've been dark. Nah, they died, most the Trapp bunch, but not in the house."

"But they all died at the same time?"

"Round 'bout." The guy glanced past Sam, frowning at the dilapidated house place. "I was a kid then, just a year older than Ricky, and he was the baby of the family. The mom had run out a long while back, left three kids with a drunk old man. The oldest, Gina, she was kinda known around the neighborhood, if you get me." He raised his eyebrows in a leer. "Momma always called her trash, but I don't like to speak ill of the dead…Maybe if the Trapps hadn't been trash, people would have been in more of an uproar over what happened, but you know how it is. All the church ladies clasped their pearls when they found the middle boy's, Glenn's, body, 'cause he was a teenager, but when Gina was killed two days later and the daddy stroked-out, the cops claimed the deaths were 'drug related', so it was old news…Better left forgotten." The man trailed off, averting his eyes from the house, as if he suddenly found his own front porch more interesting. "Anyway. That was years back. Nothing that would hurt the value of the house."

Sam blinked, momentarily forgetting his role. "Oh, uh, no. No, it shouldn't hurt the re-sale. But I'm curious. You said the siblings' deaths were drug related, but you don't sound convinced."

He shrugged. "I knew the Trapp bunch most my life, especially the boys. Had them over here all the time, when CPS wasn't trying to cart them off. When I was a kid, I remember telling my momma…I remember being so damn sure those boys had killed Gina. Don't know how I got the notion in my head, but it scared the piss out of me. Had nightmares for months. Silly, right?"

"But Glenn died first," Sam said, quietly.

The man shot Sam an annoyed glance. "Like I said. Silly. But you know how kids are, imagining things."

Sam nodded, hoping his strained smile came off as amused and not a grimace. He muttered a few more words, pulling himself away from the conversation as quickly as he could. His hands were already itching to pull his phone free and call Dean. If he was right, the earliest victims were not victims at all.

* * *

The creak of the bathroom door was what Reid was waiting to hear. The barely restrained tension on his face returned as he glanced over at Penelope. She was watching him already, as if she'd sensed he had something he wanted to talk to her about in private. He felt like he'd been waiting ages for Dean to step out of the room, even though Sam had been gone for less than half an hour. The tension Sam had left in his wake had kept the room eerily quiet aside from Dean's muttered cursing.

"I think we have a problem," Reid whispered, eyeing the back of the cabin carefully. While he didn't think Dean would react violently to this conversation, it definitely wouldn't help the situation if he knew what Reid had to say about him. "I'm afraid things are about to escalate."

Penelope blinked at him, as if dazed, then leaned forward, giving her restraints a test. "Spencer, sweetie, please don't tell me that a crazed gunman threatening our lives was the highlight of my day." Her hushed voice came out almost too fast for him to follow. "And I swear if you're about to chew me out for not taking off without you, Dr. Reid, I am going to -"

"No, I understand, your ankle was injured. An escape attempt would have been too risky," Reid interrupted, then lowered his voice. "Also thank you, for, well, saving my life most likely. Morgan is going to enjoy that part of my report, I think."

If he survived to type it, but Reid kept that part to himself.

Penelope's cheek twitched, like she was trying not to smile, then her expression dropped slightly. "Okay, why is it not comforting when you're being sentimental? What's wrong? Current tied-to-a-chair situation aside, I mean. Did something happen while I was getting cleaned up?"

Reid tilted his head, considering what he hadn't brought up when he'd confronted the brothers about Dean's supposed deaths. "No, but I noticed something on Dean, a strange shaped burn on his arm. It seemed to upset Sam… But no, what bothers me is the arrival of these new hunters. Sam and Dean also keep mentioning people involved in what they do, like the man who owned this cabin, and at first I assumed they were just integrating their associates into their fantasies, but Roy confirmed that there were more of them. People who believe they hunt demons and monsters. I'm starting to think there might be a subculture of hunters. Somehow Sam and Dean have been pushed out by the majority."

"Ghost hunters have their own reality tv shows, but this?" Penelope made a face. "But my time on the ick that is the dark web has taught me that everything, and I mean everything, has a subculture…" She sighed. "OK, I really don't want to suggest this, because I'm actually starting to like these guys a tiny bit, and don't give me that look, but do we think maybe they were kicked out of club demon slayer because they, you know, killed some people? Like real people?"

Reid shook his head. "Maybe but… I think it has more to do with something that happened _to_ them. Either way, Roy said he had a partner on his way here, which means the Winchesters are about to be on the move again. And they'll have to decide what to do with us."

"That doesn't sound great, put that way." Penelope glanced over her shoulder, at the bathroom door. "They could still let us go. They said they would…"

"I don't think Sam and Dean are serial killers."

Penelope turned back, blinking at him in surprise. "Those words sound like my words and not your words. So, you don't think they took the kids either? I wasn't sure if you were just saying that stuff earlier to play along."

"I think the Winchesters are doing what they were raised to do. They're hunting monsters. Whatever they call monsters. And I think they're doing a good job of it, judging from Sam's research, but things are going to go very badly when they confront our real unsubs, and I'm afraid the missing kids are going to get caught in the middle."

"Oh god." Penelope let out a shaky breath. "Also us."

"Also us," Reid confirmed.

"This is not good."

That was an understatement, but Reid cut himself off when he heard the bathroom door opening. He sucked on his teeth, annoyed that he'd wasted what might be his last time to talk to Garcia alone for a while. There were other things they needed to discuss, like how they were going to get out of this in one piece.

Dean walked out of the bathroom without so much as glancing their way, his hand down at his side, gripping his cell phone. Reid assumed the man had tried to have his own private conversation in the other room and been just as unsuccessful from the look on his face.

Reid felt his stomach churn at the thought of Sam not answering, because a part of him hoped that meant the man had been captured when he'd ventured into town. Reid wasn't sure why that possibility worried him. Perhaps because he knew how often armed suspects weren't captured alive. Reid knew he was trained to be concerned with his own safety, and his teammates' safety, before the safety of the suspects, but he couldn't help the bit of nausea that crept in when he thought of the Winchesters going down. This wasn't the first time he'd felt this way; sympathy was one of the drawbacks of getting into the mind of a criminal.

"Is your arm hurting?"

Dean glanced over at him, like he was confused by the question. He straightened like he'd realized he was favoring one side. "I've had worse," he said, distracted. He glanced down at his phone's screen, like he was expecting it to light up. "Come on, Sam," he muttered under his breath.

"I noticed," Reid said, trying to catch his attention. "What happened to your other arm?"

Dean didn't look up at him. "It's a tattoo," he answered.

Dean was brushing him off, but Reid could tell the question had bothered him. Dean turned his back on the pair, digging around in the bag lying on the cot. He found what he was looking for, a half empty bottle of whiskey, and took a swig from it before plopping down on the thin mattress.

"Branding is an interesting form of body modification," Reid mused. "But then, humans have been modifying their bodies by means of piercing, scarring, and ink for thousands of years. Did you know there was an ancient Filipino city known for their full body tattooing? It was called "The Island of the Painted Ones" by the Spaniards who first arrived there."

"Did not know that," Dean answered, glancing down at his phone again.

"Was it consensual?"

This time Dean did give Reid his full attention. "Uh, what are we talking about here?"

Reid nodded his chin toward the man. "The branding. Did you ask for it or did someone give it to you against your will? I only ask because Sam seemed bothered by its appearance. Like it reminded him of something unpleasant."

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it again, his brow wrinkling. "What are you doing? Trying to look for details to fluff up your file on me? Sam warned me not to forget that you're a frickin' profiler. Guess I should've listened…"

Reid licked his lips. He could almost feel Garcia's eyes boring a hole through him, asking him to be quiet, but he had a hard time letting go of the thought.

"Have you been drinking more lately, Dean?"

The question stopped Dean from taking another swig off his whiskey. The man huffed. "Dude, I was just shot. Excuse me for self medicating."

"You're not sleeping well either. Your body movements indicate that you're uneasy, you're feeling aches that aren't there. Your mood is a roller coaster, Dean. And your relationship with Sam is strained, at best. These are all indicators of a mood disorder brought on by trauma."

"Reid," Penelope warned.

"Gee, Doc, you planning to write me a prescription for this?" Dean snapped, and rolled his eyes. "What are you doing exactly? Trying to throw me off my game? What the hell do you care if I'm a little moody? You've already decided I'm a criminal. That I've killed people. What the hell does any of that matter?"

"It matters because you're suffering from post traumatic stress, and it has something to do with that mark on your arm. Why do those hunters think that you died last Spring?"

"Because I did!"

Reid had forgotten how cold it was in the room, but the words seemed to slap him like a cool breeze. He shivered at the anger in Dean's voice, the frustration. The man had sunk back against the wall, like the words had taken all the energy out of him.

"You really want to know?" Dean said, but the question was soft, like he wasn't talking to them anymore. "I got drug down to Hell. Spent my summer vacation on the rack, and then pulled myself up out of the grave after some angelic dickwad decided to yank me from 'perdition'. Because a guy can't get a break just 'cause he's dead." He cut his gaze at Reid. "So there you go. There's you a touch more crazy bullshit to add to the infamous Dean Winchester's file. Happy?"

Reid swallowed hard. "Dean-"

The sound of a buzz cut him off. Dean had slid forward, sitting upright, the phone to his ear before Reid had even realized there was an incoming call.

"Sam, what took you so long?" Dean answered.

Reid tried to listen in but couldn't make out more than a muffled reply, but Dean's expression shifted, and he could tell the hunters were back to business.

"They off-ed their sister?" Dean asked, a look of disgust on his face. "So any idea where Ricky and Casper are holed up these days?"

A sister. The case from eight years ago had involved a sister and brother dying. Ricky must have been the name of the living sibling, Reid realized, and if he was understanding their conversation correctly, Dean and Sam suspected Ricky was their unsub. Before Reid could voice a warning, Dean beat him to the punch.

"Sam, just wait for me first," Dean said, standing. "I can meet you -"

Something cut him off, and Dean all but growled at the phone. "Then swing by and pick me up before you check it out." He quieted a moment, letting his brother reply. "And what if you're right?" he snapped, after a moment.

Whatever Sam had answered hadn't pleased Dean. Dean ended the call with a grimace, pulling his bag up off the cot as he moved. He stopped at the small table, grabbing up a few things Sam had left behind.

"Are you leaving?"

The question came from Garcia. Her eyes were wide in fear at the prospect. Dean froze, giving her a look of regret.

"You'll be fine, ok?" Dean said. "But I need to get to Sam before he gets himself into trouble." The small smile on his face looked forced. "Good new is, that means this is over. If we're lucky, this is the last you'll see of this handsome mug."

"They'll be looking for your car," Garcia warned. "You'll be caught."

"Yeah, well, maybe, maybe not." Dean shrugged off the concern.

"The other hunters," Reid said, swallowing hard. "Dean, you know one of them is headed here."

Dean hesitated at the door, looking back at them. "Walt is probably a way off still, or he wouldn't have sent Roy in on his own. You'll be fine."

Reid knew it was a fine line, arguing with the man. Stopping him from leaving. But he could feel it in his gut, a sense of foreboding.

"You could get us killed," Reid blurted.

And he thought it had worked, for a moment. Dean's face fell. The expression in his eyes something like hurt. Reid had been expecting it. Though the profile on the Winchesters was far from complete, Reid had seen the way Dean had gone out of his way to protect them from getting hurt by Roy.

"What if something happens to you and we're stuck here. If we die, it's on you, Dean. Let us go. You've got to let us go."

Fear flickered across Dean's eyes before he cast them down, shaking his head at the floor. "You'll be ok. I promise."

"Dean!"

But the man was already out the door, a quiet settling over the cabin as the Impala roared to life outside. They could hear the tires spin in the gravel as the car sped off down the narrow drive.

"Spencer," Garcia said, "tell me our team will find us."

"They will," Reid replied, and was surprised to find he meant it. "They just need more time."

He hoped they had it to spare.

* * *

It was a longshot, but Sam thought he might be onto something.

He's said something close to that, ending with a curt, "I'll call you when I find out," and ignoring whatever his brother tried to say to stop him.

Dean's voice was still ringing in his ears, but he'd already slipped his phone back into his jacket pocket, keeping a sharp eye on the street signs as he turned down a sleepy neighborhood a few blocks from downtown. An area, he realized with some reluctant satisfaction, that was still close to the center of the map he'd made of the body dump sites.

It had taken a quick re-read of the article on the first murders and a call to a local real-estate group for Sam to figure out another location to check out. Glenn Trapp, victim one, and possibly their vengeful spirit; his body had been found in a small, abandoned business a few miles from his home. While the report itself had given a location for Glenn Trapp's murder, it hadn't been very specific as to why the boy had been there. Then Sam realized that the youngest, Ricky, had been removed from his father's custody. There was barely a mention of it, but if Sam had to guess, he'd say the foster family must have been nearby. Glenn had probably been visiting his brother when he was killed.

Sam didn't like that there weren't more details on Glenn's murder or where his body was laid to rest. Or, if there were, he couldn't get to them while the town was on the lookout for him and Dean. But the one thing they did have going for them was the hope that maybe the feds hadn't looked into this these deaths. After all, they didn't quite fit the pattern.

It was an argument that he'd made to Dean. And it was an argument that Dean couldn't give a rat's ass about. Sam felt the blood warm beneath his skin. He was still on edge from his brother's angry tone. If this was any other hunt, he would have followed Dean's advice, but his brother seemed to be ignoring the fact that they were running out of time on all fronts.

Sam rolled to a stop at a street corner, able to see the structure of the building a block away. It was a quaint building, not very tall, but there was a recognizable mint green sign still hanging from above door, "Florist," written in beautiful script behind the shattered neon bulbs, a metal rose stem drawing a line beneath the word. Even in the distance, Sam could make out the faded painting of another large rose on the glass front window. It didn't look like a serial killer's lair, but he could see the building was longer than it first appeared, extra space and a garage at the back of the fenced in property, the long, angular shape of a greenhouse attached at the side. Plenty of places to hide victims.

There were houses nearby, but none close enough for noisy neighbors to notice any odd coming and going. None close enough to hear the sound of someone screaming, either, Sam guessed, grimacing.

"Sorry, Dean," Sam muttered.

He stepped out of Roy's truck, pulling the duffel bag off the passenger's seat and slinging it over his arm. Hopefully he wouldn't have to use the sawed-off inside, but it was better safe than sorry. Especially if he was right about this. Especially if there was any chance the kids were inside.


	10. One But Not the Same

If the perfume of long dead flowers still hung in the air, Sam couldn't detect it over the stale scent of decay. There, under the mold and dust, was a metallic tingle at his nose, the scent of blood. He knew it wasn't his imagination the same way he knew that he wouldn't need to pull the EMF meter from his bag. Instead, as soon as he had both feet on the ground and the old shattered window closed behind him, he pulled free the sawed-off.

The room he'd entered through was part of the main shop, the askew counter at the center still recognizable without a cash register, the glass shelves behind it in ruins and the backsplash of broken mirror reflecting dim afternoon light around the narrow space. Sam didn't want to risk cleaning off the front windows for better light, so he pulled a short flashlight from his jacket pocket, lining it up against the length of his weapon.

The shop was empty, the detriment of years past still a solid blanket over the tiled floor. He didn't see any footsteps but his own in the dust. All that told him was that Ricky didn't use the space, which made sense considering the wall of filthy windows along the front of the building.

Sam took a step back, sweeping the space once more before deciding on the darkened doorway to the left of the counter top. The narrow hallway's cheap paneling seemed to swallow the beam from his flashlight, but he moved on, trying to keep his steps quiet. The door to the first room he came to was open, a tiny restroom that smelled foul, so he moved back into the hallway quickly, spotting the next doorway, then an opening to his left, probably to the greenhouse. He chose the room on the right first, noticing the narrow width of the door frame. It was too slender to be anything but a closet.

He twisted the knob, pushing the door in as slowly as possible. But it took him another second to realize the squeak hadn't come from the hinges but from inside. Sam almost stumbled back when his light landed on the cage. Some part of him wasn't ready to see movement, but when the kid's eyes opened, startled and squinting at the blinding light, Sam let out a shaky breath of relief. Another squeak sounded; no, a whimper, as the kid tried to curl in on himself against the far wall.

Sam lowered the light, stepping forward, but he couldn't get much closer.

"Hey, hey, it's okay. I'm here to help. Are you Thomas?"

Sam already knew the answer. He'd seen the nine-year-old's face plastered on the news. He took a quick glance at the cage, realizing what it was. Someone had modified a roll of garden fencing, nailing it to the wall just past the swing of the closet door and cutting out a door that was chained back into place. The result was an enclosure that was as tall as the room, but barely four feet wide.

"They're coming back," Thomas said, in answer, but he lifted his head off of his knees, as if to see Sam better. There was some light in his eyes, hope, Sam recognized, and the kid pushed himself up onto his feet. "We have to hurry. They said they'd be right back!"

Sam tried to resist the urge to shush the kid, instead gesturing a finger to his lips. Thomas took the hint but stayed focused on the man, more alert than Sam would have ever imagined.

"Where's your brother?" Sam asked, his voice at a whisper. "Is Michael in the building?"

Thomas nodded, pushing up against the cage door. And pointing out at the hallway. "They won't let me see him again ... but I hear him."

There was a shake to his voice, a tremor he tried to hide, and Sam felt his jaw tighten with anger. He knew what the kid wasn't saying. What Thomas meant was that he could hear his brother screaming, crying out for help. Things a child should never have to hear. Sam was suddenly pissed at the neighbors a few blocks away. Did none of them ever walk by? Did they never notice anything weird happening here? But he buried the ill-aimed frustration. It was pointless, and he had work to do.

"Watch out," Sam warned and sat the shotgun against the wall, reaching down to the cage's corner, where the fencing flushed against the floor and curled upward slightly. He hoped the construction was as flimsy as it looked. He grabbed on tight, bracing a foot against the wall before he jerked the corner up. A nail popped loose, bouncing against the floor. Sam grunted, pulling again. He felt a few more inches pull free from the wall. Sam's shoulders screamed at him to stop, but he re-positioned his fingers and gave a yank, grunting as he tried to pull another nail free.

Thomas fell to the floor without a word, shimmying against the tile to push his head and shoulders through the tiny gap. It wasn't big enough for an adult to fit through, but Thomas was in a hurry to give it a try. He was half through when he froze, and Sam had heard it too, the sound of metal clicking. A garage door sliding down.

Sam knelt down, pulling the kid the rest of the way out, and shoving him past the closet door as soon as he was on his feet. He grabbed him by the shoulder, steadying him.

"Thomas," he whispered. He hated himself a little for having to send the kid off alone, but he couldn't see another option. "There's a window with a broken latch right past the hallway. I want you to get through it and get to the sidewalk, okay? Run down it until you see a house. Wave down help."

Thomas' eyes widened. "But Michael…"

"I'll find your brother, I promise."

Sam reached back for his shotgun, wincing at the too-loud sound of Thomas' footsteps as he ran toward the front of the building. He marched forward, finger on the trigger, but realized that there was one more doorway before the dead end into the garage. Sam slipped in quietly, softly pushing the door closed behind him. He doubted it would buy him more than a few seconds, if Ricky didn't already know he was around.

His cell phone was already in his free hand, his thumb hovering over the keyboard and ready to type, but the signal lost notice was glaring up at him and he bit back a grunt of annoyance before pocketing it. Hopefully he'd make it out of it here without Dean getting a chance to say, "I told you so."

Sam looked up, studying his new hiding spot. The room was almost as wide as the shop up front, a spacious workroom with a glass cooler door at the far corner and a line of wooden tables scattered with crumbling ribbons and busted vases. There was a stack of neatly folded quilts a few feet away, topped with a fluffed pillow that seemed fresh and oddly out of place. Then, there was a door straight across from him, no doubt an exit into the hallway he hadn't chosen that opened from the far side of the shop. For a moment, he was so distracted by the sudden means of escape that he didn't even see the kid's still, long form pushed flush against the wall.

"Shit," he muttered.

Sam ran toward the back of the room, almost slipping in a puddle. He glanced down, realizing the dark shadows against the white and black tile were blood, some of it thick but fresh, some of it molding and old. He closed his mouth against the smell, collecting himself quickly to get across the space.

The kid's eyes were piercing, fiercely focused on him, but they glinted with wetness, just like his brother's. This was another face he knew from the news: Michael Gravitt.

The boy was straining against his binding, whatever greeting he had for Sam lost behind a gag. Sam shook his head, a finger at his lips once more, and pulled the gag free. Michael gave him a pointed glare that reminded him too much of Dean and jerked his head toward his raised arms. It took Sam a minute to realize that the thin nylon ropes looping over the kid were held in place by large builder's staples. He yanked a line of them loose, stopping when he saw Michael's grimace.

Blood spotted the kid's shirt, and Sam winced, realizing some of the staples had missed the wall behind.

"Hurry," Michael bit, his face screwed up. Sam knew that expression. It was one he'd worn more than once when Dean was patching him up, and he hated seeing it on a kid.

Trying to make it fast, Sam pulled at the next rope, instantly grabbing the ones below and yanking them free. He took a step back when only the ones around the boy's legs remained, letting Michael pull himself out of the tangle of nylon.

Sam felt a chill across his skin. His breath clouded at his lips at the sudden drop in temperature, and Michael stumbled away from him, eyes wide in horror. Sam didn't need to turn to know what was behind him.

"I told my brother that wouldn't hold," it said.

* * *

Roy's truck was waiting for him a block from the location, parked just out of common view, and Dean didn't need to look twice to know that Sam wasn't inside it. Dean could feel it, the pressure behind his eyes, the cold in his veins, the instincts that told him when a job was about to go south in a hurry. He would have thought that had already happened, but things, as he'd learned throughout the years, could always get worse.

Grimacing, he pulled the Impala over close to the truck, barely glimpsing in his rearview to see if anyone was watching. By some miracle, he'd managed to stay off the main roads enough to avoid detection, from what he could tell, but it would only be a matter of time before someone spotted Baby and sent the cops to check her out.

Fine. He worked better with a deadline anyway.

He glanced down at his phone, which had seemed all but useless on the way here, sending him straight to Sam's voicemail after every dial. If Sam wasn't actually in danger right now, Dean knew his brother was going to want to throttle him if he followed through on this next call. Because there was a chance he was wrong, that Sam was checking out an empty place and that they weren't any closer to finding this killer and his pet ghost. Hiding from the feds and the locals would be nearly impossible in about an hour. Which meant they were going to have to risk leaving the job unfinished, a conclusion that left Dean's stomach sour.

But both his options were bad ones right now. Roy's buddy Walt was probably on his way. And Sam, if true to form, was probably right about the ghost and wrong about going at it alone. They were screwed either way, and the least he could do would be to keep a promise.

" _Etowah County Sheriff's Department._ "

Dean winced, considering hanging up one last time before he let out a stilted breath. "County Road 14, there's an unmarked turnoff to a property at the fork. The feds will find their people there."

" _Sir, do -_ "

Dean all but jumped out, a makeshift weapons bag already at his side, and he nearly ran into the kid before he actually saw him.

"My brother needs help!"

Two small, shaking hands grabbed his free one. Out of instinct, Dean almost pushed him away, but he knew the panicked face looking up at him. The child couldn't have been ten yet, and he looked even younger in his layer of dust, the side of his face swollen slightly from a blow. Eyes wide in realization, Dean knelt down, forcing Thomas' wandering gaze to stay on him.

"Thomas? Hey, kid, calm down, okay. You're safe."

Dean looked past the kid long enough to see the quiet building down the block, the old flower shop Sam had said he was going to check out. _Wish I didn't need to say I told you so, Sam,_ Dean thought, bitterly. The kid must have taken off across the street toward him when he saw the Impala.

"The tall man said he was going to save Michael," Thomas said, sounding breathless. He trembled, either from shock or the cold. The kid was in a short sleeved shirt, and a second glance told Dean some of that dirt on his arms was actually splotchy looking bruises. Dean figured he'd regret it soon, but he slipped off his jacket, hanging it off the kid's narrow shoulders. He hoped the kid was too distracted to notice the bullet hole in the sleeve, or the dark stain in the lining.

"Yeah, kid, the giant's with me. He still inside?"

"He's still in there. He told me to run but I can't without Michael," Thomas said, eyes wet. His chin shook and he looked younger than his nine years. "And I think the bad guys are back. We need to get help."

"I am the help, kid," Dean assured. "See that black car? There's a blanket in the back. Get inside and hide back there. I'll be right back. You hear me? I'll be right back. We'll get Michael, okay?"

Thomas nodded. "Okay."

Dean hoped the kid listened, but he didn't look back to find out. He crossed the street at a run. A quick glance at the front of the building, with its hedge of weeds and layer of dirt told him his brother probably hadn't bothered with it. He turned a corner and found the side wall's second window wide open, probably from the kid climbing through.

He pulled his sawed-off free, wondering if Sam had brought his own salt rounds with him. _Raised him better,_ Dean thought, wanting to smile at the thought of his brother daring to go in unprepared. It came out as a grimace instead.

As soon as he got closer, he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand. The window's hinge squeaked as it rocked outward, a sliver of its shattered pane coming loose and hitting the ground below. Dean raised the shotgun, ready to fire, but a sneaker appeared through the opening, tapping the window open even further, and was followed by a leg. The form that jumped out, landing hard on his knees, was too small to be Sam's. The boy looked up, startled to find Dean looking down at him, but Dean dropped the gun slightly, a hand raised in peace.

"Michael?" Dean whispered.

Michael looked over his shoulder, up at the open window, and must have decided he had better chances with the stranger. He stumbled up to his feet, and Dean could tell he was more dazed that his little brother had even been, barely able to stay upright. Blood stained his clothes, little spots and tears that Dean didn't want to think about too hard.

"Michael, I'm Dean, alright? My brother Sam, tall guy, hair too long, he inside still?"

Michael straightened, looking more alert. "Sam," like he needed to know his name. "He got me loose, but the… It came back. Sam told me to run."

_The ghost,_ Dean filled in for him, shaking his head.

"There's a black car a block over. You'll see it. Thomas is inside."

Michael didn't wait to hear any more instructions. He was around the corner before Dean reached the window. Dean hopped through the threshold, his knees creaking at the sharp landing on the tile inside, but he didn't have time to take things slowly. He listened, hoping for sounds of a struggle. When he heard none, he quickly chose the likeliest path, into the darkness.

The hallway was short, with too few doors, and he couldn't help but feel he should have heard something already.

"Screw it," Dean muttered under his breath. He raised his voice to a shout, "SAM!"

And tightened his grip on the sawed-off, ready to shoot at whatever came out of the woodworks. But nothing stepped out of the shadows. The building was quiet. Empty.

No...No…

Dean ran forward, glancing past the doors as he swept past. A bathroom, a greenhouse, and an empty cage. The hell? The last room, Dean didn't even pretend to look at past the blood, the ropes. Sam's shotgun.

Dean swallowed hard, not wanting to think about those red spills on the floor, not wanting to see how fresh some of them were. He backed out of the room, heading to the back of the store, where the hall opened up. A garage awaited. A dingy once-white delivery truck sat on two flat tires, its hood raised and its motor looted for parts. Light cut around its square corners from the open rolling door.

Dean swept the room and told himself that sound he was hearing wasn't his heart beat, too loud, deafening. He held down his panic. Sam might have slipped out the back, tried to go after the bad guys. One of them was a human. Sam could have taken the human ( _the serial killer, Dean_ ), held back the ghost with salt rounds ( _the gun was left in the room, Dean_ ), could have circled around the back to go look for the kid ( _but didn't hear you call his name?_ ). Dean swore at the voice in his head, the one telling him the truth he knew he was avoiding.

Sam was gone. He was _gone._

Dean ran out the back rolling door, taking the dirt drive at full speed, toward the black top road. He needed to get back to the car, or Roy's truck...Maybe Sam had left some notes, other locations where -

"Drop the weapon!"

Dean's plan was cut short at the front of the store. His vision seemed to blur for a minute as he took in the two marked cars parked to block the road, uniformed officers pointing handguns his way. There was another cop car further down the road, at the Impala. He had no clue how they'd gotten there so fast. Someone must have spotted the Impala. As predicted.

_But the kids are alright,_ he thought, solemnly. And there was a chance, slim one, that Sam might have gotten away, hid when he saw the police. _(They take the youngest first._ ) Dean dropped the gun to the ground, numbly raising his hands above his head and wanting to scream.

* * *

It had been silent, frustratingly quiet, the new profiles they'd presented sitting inside them like lead weights. Then, two bites, all at once. The first, a concerned citizen had mentioned seeing a black classic car, an Impala, they were sure. The second, a man had called in an address.

_"The feds will find their people there."_

Morgan had listened to the recording with the others, minutes after it had come in through the county's tip line, and had felt a terrifying mixture of emotions at the words. Because this was what he'd needed, something, anything to propel them forward. And this is what he'd also dreaded.

Morgan would have thought he would have been the first one out the door at the mere hint of a location, but his feet stayed glued to the floor.

Thinking the Winchesters wouldn't hurt his teammates and knowing for sure were two very different things. Especially if that was one of the brothers calling in the tip - and it sure as hell sounded like Dean Winchester's recordings - because it begged the question: why? Why now? What had changed. If Reid was on the other side of this, he would be the one bringing up Schrodinger's Cat right now, but Morgan didn't have the guts to voice it. He buried it deep, hoping no one else could see he was scared to know if he was wrong. If he was going to find two bodies out there.

"Did you hear me, Morgan?"

Morgan blinked realizing that no, he hadn't heard Hotch. The unit leader was staring at him intensely.

"You're with me. The sheriff knows the place. It's a cabin about fifteen miles outside the city limits. Rossi and Prentiss are on the Impala sighting since they're already nearby." Hotch paused, even as it seemed everyone was rushing around the office, salmon swimming upstream. "We're going to get our people back."

It was an echo of a promise, and Morgan could see the sincerity in Hotch's eyes. _He needs me to believe it,_ Morgan thought _, so he can believe it too._ Morgan nodded stiffly.

They had an escort for the trip there. Flashing lights and ignored speed signs, Morgan could imagine what the locals were thinking when they pulled off the narrow county roads to let them pass. With four people missing in small town America, they were no doubt thinking another body had been found. Morgan hoped they'd all be proved wrong.

He wondered if he'd blacked out for some of the ride, if Hotch had said anything that he'd ignored, given any orders or assurances. Morgan was vaguely aware of his phone vibrating, but he knew if it was important it would go to Hotch first. They were there, ready, the sheriff's men parked ahead, out of their vehicles already, falling into formation, and Morgan joined the group.

It was a blur, the short wait, scoping out the windows of the cabin, checking the exterior for any unwelcome surprises. By the time they pushed open the front door, Hotch at lead, Morgan thought he might burst out of skin.

"Hotch, Morgan!"

He let out a breath as soon as he heard the welcome. His vision seemed to sharpen, losing the blur around the edges when he saw them, alive, breathing. Reid was talking a mile a minute, but Morgan only processed the obvious:

_They're alive._

The sheriff swept the room again, a few of his people shuffling past, guns still at the ready, but Morgan had already holstered his, heading to his teammates. Hotch took the choice from him, moving to the back of Reid's chair, so Morgan smiled tightly at Garcia, bending to one knee to check out her bindings.

Her hair was a bit of a mess, and her face devoid of its usual colorful accents, but she looked whole, unbroken. His girl.

"The sight of your face has never been more awe inspiring, my chocolate Hercules," Penelope greeted, sighing in relief as he tugged her arm free.

"Right back at you, beautiful," Morgan returned, catching her as she lunged forward as soon as her arms were loose, hugging him around the neck.

Morgan pushed himself up, half standing to return the embrace and reaching behind her to tangle his fingertips in her hair. When she pulled back, her eyes were wet, but her lips were turned up in a smile.

"I swear I'm never leaving the office again," she said, with a harsh chuckle. "I'm leaving the field work to you from now on."

Morgan wanted to smile back at her, but the words reminded him that she should never have had to be put in danger like this. Anger stayed at the surface, right under his skin, burning its ways through his eyes.

"...They left, Dean less than an hour ago, and I think they have a lead on where the kids are. The Winchesters aren't our unsubs, Hotch, but I think Sam might have identified the person we're after."

Morgan turned, catching part of what Reid was saying. Reid wobbled as he stood, either out of excitement or from sitting too long, and Hotch kept a hand at his back, to help him up. Morgan hoped their kidnappers had given them food and water. He gave Reid a quick, assessing look, but he couldn't see any visible injuries on the younger agent. And while he was trembling slightly from the chill, his eyes were bright with awareness. He looked nothing like he did the night they saved him from Tobias Hankel, and the realization ebbed some of that rage Morgan was feeling. He still wanted to take down the Winchesters with all his might, but he was no longer afraid of what he'd do to them when he found them.

Morgan didn't want to think about what he would have done if either of them had been hurt.

"Do you know where they were headed?" Hotch asked.

Reid nodded. "Not the exact location, but I know how to find it."

Morgan shook his head at the kid, still hard at work, but the thought sobered him. There were two children still missing, and he had no right to feel as glad as he did right now. He turned his gaze down, hoping none of them could read the conflict on his face, and spotted the splintered holes in the floor.

"Are those bullet holes?"

Penelope huffed out an unamused laugh. "Oh boy are they. We have some catching up to do." She looked past him, to Reid, as if she'd just realized something. "Oh, that reminds me. Hotch, there might be a bad guy locked in the woodshed out back…It's been a long twenty-four hours."

Morgan blinked at her, surprised. Had it really only been a day? He felt like he'd been running at full throttle for a week.

"Agent Hotchner?" Sheriff McKinney interrupted. "The Attalla police just radioed in. You're not going to believe this, but they just picked up Dean Winchester and the Gravitt kids."

* * *

Sam blinked dumbly at the white metal framing, something wet and warm sliding down his face and threatening to drip into his eyes. He wanted to ask where he was, but it came out muffled against the thick wad of fabric shoved into his mouth and taped into place. It took him a long moment to realize that he was inside a vehicle, a van, and that it wasn't moving anymore. But he _was_ moving, tight fingers tugging at his ankles, sliding his body down the plastic sheeting over the van's mildewed carpet.

He couldn't remember the drive, whether it was a long one or a short one. In fact, it couldn't remember being put in the van at all, and the sudden worry that he'd been out for far too long brought him to awareness.

He curled his fingers, testing the binding around his wrists but it was unyielding. His legs were tied just as well, but he figured if he pulled his knees up, he might get in one good kick to Ricky's chest. Before he could test the theory, he dropped suddenly, the weight of his body losing its battle with gravity at the edge of the van's back door.

The concrete hit like a gut punch and Sam groaned, desperately wishing his mouth was free so he could catch his breath.

He watched a man's shoes walk past him, heard the back door slam shut above him, and he tried to concentrate on where he was instead of the pain lancing through him. After a second, it became clear that he was staring at a garage door, a line of shelves next to him holding dusty paint cans and water hoses, rakes and shovels, a milk crate with a baseball glove and a football peeking over the top. A house then, someone's house, and Sam hoped to God the owners weren't home.

Sam froze. He could feel someone watching him.

"We lost them..." The man's voice came out as a panicked hiss, like he couldn't quite force himself to yell. "Glenn, what are we going to do? We lost the boys."

Another voice joined in, one that Sam recognized from the florists'. He'd heard it a second before the pain had struck.

Glenn, the dead brother.

"Shh, now, Ricky. We'll be alright. I saw the other one, right before you got out of Dodge. He was marching up to the place, all tough shit… A big brother if I ever saw one, come to save his little brother, just like he should." Glenn's pale face appeared in front of Sam's line of sight, his head cocked mockingly as he stooped down. "That was your big brother wasn't it? You don't have to answer. I've come to recognize family when I see it. The look they get in their eyes when they know the blood that's gonna spill is the same that's flowing through their veins. Yeah. That was your brother back there."

Sam was dead still, glaring daggers at the ghost, but Glenn slowly smiled. His image flickered like static on a television and he disappeared. His voice was across the garage when he spoke again.

"Nothing has to change."

"But they're not the ones we wanted." Ricky's voice came out like a whine, childish despite his age. "The kids were supposed to be easier. That's why you picked them!"

"Doesn't matter if they're easier, because I'm stronger now. You've got to trust me. We'll make do with what we've got."

"I _do_ trust you, Glenn."

"Then all we need to do is try extra hard this time, little brother. Need to get their lessons in real fast. The better we break 'em, the better our chances. It's gonna work. Just you see."

Sam took a deep breath through his nose, bracing himself. He knew what was coming next. For once, he wished he'd gone into a case unprepared.


	11. Its Dreadful Imposition

It had been just a glimpse, but Reid had managed to spot Dean as they were bringing him through the department. They'd locked eyes, and Reid had been too curious to see the other man's reaction to take note of his own. When the moment had passed, Reid had been left frowning at the door to the staff room on loan to the BAU.

"He didn't seem surprised to see you." The comment had come from J.J., and Reid almost dropped his cup of coffee. He'd forgotten that she was still in the room behind him, watching at his side. "Sheriff McKinney and the Attalla Police Department are helping us keep this development quiet for the moment, but it won't be long until local media finds out we have Dean Winchester in custody."

Reid hummed a response instead of answering fully, his brow furrowed in thought. J.J. touched his elbow gently, the motion serving to remind him he should be back inside the room. He stepped back to the table, still littered with files, and took a seat. J.J. didn't join him, but stared down, something between concern and relief on her face. It was an expression he was quickly growing used to, especially since he'd refused to stay at the hospital after the EMT checked him out. Penelope had been forced to stick around, with her injured ankle needing an x-ray, but she'd only put up a short fight when she heard that Prentiss would be right behind her to keep her updated.

Reid was certain Hotch and Morgan knew the reason he was putting up a fight, and they'd relented surprisingly quickly. Perhaps because they knew Reid would have more insight than any of them about the man they were leading into interrogation. They were right, but he worried his conclusions might not fit their own profile for the Winchesters.

"But then he wouldn't be surprised, since he was the one who called in the tip," Reid finally said. When J.J. blinked at him, he realized he'd taken far too long to make the comment, and he cleared his throat. "He'd promised me, and Garcia, that he wouldn't let us die there."

J.J.'s smile was tight, accommodating. "I'm glad he kept his word."

"No mention of Sam yet."

It wasn't really a question but J.J. answered him, nevertheless. "Still at large. As is our subject, Ricky Trapp. Though at least we have a name, thanks to you."

Thanks to the Winchesters, Reid wanted to amend, but he kept quiet. He'd filled Hotch in on what Sam and Dean had said about the earlier case, the clues he'd picked up from Dean's phone call about the siblings. It has been easy enough to pick up on a last name. Easier still to confirm that Sam had obviously been right about a possible location for Ricky's victims, since the officers at the scene had recovered the kids.

Reid didn't bother to ask about Roy, and he had a sinking feeling the "hunter" would be one of many loose ends on this case. He already knew what the rest of the team knew, that Deputy Barnel had found rope in the woodshed out back but no captive. Roy was in the wind, a fact that was of more concern to Penelope than the rest of his team. Reid could understand why, and he agreed that Roy likely wouldn't focus on retaliation, but he hoped the roadblocks that were put up for Sam and Ricky netted Roy and the mysterious Walt as well, even if the odds were against it.

This should have felt better, escaping their dangerous abductors, getting the Gravitt boys back alive. But Reid felt a pit in his stomach, that same sense of foreboding that had overcome him when Dean had left them alone in the cabin.

This wasn't over yet.

J.J. glanced down at her phone, grimacing at something on the screen, and Reid could hear the faint sound of its buzz. "I need to take this," she excused.

Hotch was at the doorway as soon as she passed through it, his eyes on Reid, as if scanning him for any tell-tale sign of injury. Instead of his frown lifting, it seemed to deepen slightly, as if the man had been looking for a reason not to voice whatever he was planning to say next.

"He asked for me," Reid assumed.

Hotch was quiet a moment before he answered. "You don't have to if you're not up for it."

Reid stood up, nodding more to himself than Hotch. "I want to. There are a few things I'd like to clear up," he said. "And I'm not sure Morgan should be left alone with Dean for long."

Hotch's cheek twitched slightly. "It wouldn't be advisable." He sobered slightly. "There's a high chance of Sam Winchester trying to find a way to get to his brother. They have a record of coming after one another, causing diversions to allow for the other's escape. We should be expecting to hear from him."

Reid nodded. "If he's able."

Hotch raised a brow.

Reid knew he was reading into it, but his instinct told him he was right to point out the obvious. "Sam wasn't at the abandoned shop. He should have been."

"Prentiss will be interviewing the Gravitt boys to determine how Sam escaped, but they've already confirmed he was there," Hotch replied. "What's that look on your face?"

Dread. Reid didn't answer, looking to the door again. He wanted Hotch to be right, for them to expect Sam Winchester to show himself, but the expression on Dean's face… He had a feeling it was a reflection of his own: they were both expecting the worst.

"I think we should talk to Dean about the case now. He and Sam found Ricky the first time. I think he might know how to find him again."

* * *

Dean was certain of two things, one being that the impressively muscular and slightly threatening FBI agent sitting across the table hated him with a passion, despite the fact that they'd only just met at the station. The second thing being that Sam was in trouble.

Time had not been Dean's friend. He'd had to spend too much of it in a police car in front of the florist shop, then being transferred from the station to the sheriff's department, and now in this meat locker that was passing as an interrogation room. The temperature was a typical cop maneuver, but Dean was glad to see that over the past fifteen minutes or so, at least, Agent Morgan was getting to suffer with him, the agent leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

_Because he's friggin cold,_ Dean thought, trying to distract himself by looking the man over, daring to meet his eye. Dean was glad for any observation that would take his mind off the fact that a psycho and his dead sibling were probably deciding how to best torture Sam right now.

Dean tasted bile in the back of his throat and sat up straighter, trying to will the mental image away. He wanted to go back to lying to himself, to believing that Sam had gotten out the back, had probably been behind a hedge watching Dean get arrested, was thinking up a plan to get them out of this… But he couldn't. His gut wouldn't let him.

What he needed to do was think of a way to get out of this mess. Get out of this place. Get Sam.

"Something wrong, Winchester?"

The man's comment might have made him jump a little. Dean covered it up with a petulant pout. "Yeah. Could do with a seat cushion if you're going to have me sitting here all day."

"I'm sure the cot in your cell will be more comfortable," Morgan assured him. "But you strike me as the type of guy who likes to run his mouth. Doubt you'll have any listeners where we're putting you."

"Gee," Dean sighed, "does this mean I get a private room?"

Morgan sat up straight, propping his arms on the table to lean closer. "You itching to be somewhere? Because I hate to tell you, if you're banking on your little brother Sammy having an easier time busting you out in transport, think again. You're not moving an inch from this department until we get him in cuffs too."

Dean bit down a smart-ass reply, trying to keep the annoyance from showing on his face, but he figured it would be misread anyway. He already knew Sam wouldn't be there to save him this time. No one would. He'd hate to admit it to Sam, but he'd even whispered a prayer to that angelic D-bag. Feathers was a no-show. He was on his own here. _They_ were on their own.

"Don't you have a serial killer to find or something?" Dean snapped.

Morgan's brow rose. "You tell me. We after a serial killer here? Or is it a vampire? Maybe the wolf man? What about a demon? Isn't that what your family hunts?"

Dean recognized the bait for what it was, but he wasn't sure why the guy was trying to get a rise out of him. Then the door to the room opened, and he figured he had the reason.

"Oh, look, it's good cop," Dean welcomed, but he smiled faintly at Dr. Reid nevertheless. Reid returned the tight-lipped welcome, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard.

"Hello, Dean," Reid returned.

Dean saw another agent in a suit shooting him a glance from the doorway before it closed, and if he had to guess, he'd say Mr. Pointed Glare was probably the boss. He figured it would only be a matter of time before they tapped Morgan out and brought in Agent Authority Figure to try and play the role. These guys were smart, but Dean figured that worked against them too, because as good as they probably were at getting the truth out of people, they really, really didn't want to know what was actually going on here.

Reid took the seat next to Morgan, looking like an awkward kid in a waiting room. Dean wished he could have a moment alone with the guy, to talk to him about that last conversation they'd had. He felt a little bad now, losing his cool with him. Reid was just trying to save his own ass, and there was nothing wrong with that.

"Is Penelope okay?" Dean asked.

Reid nodded, and Morgan followed the movement, eyes narrowing slightly when they glanced back at Dean again.

"She'll be fine," Reid answered, quietly. "She's at the hospital getting her ankle checked out." His cheek twitched slightly, but Dean thought the amusement rang false. "She'll be glad you asked about her first."

Dean frowned. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," Reid assured.

"Fine. Sure." Dean shook his head. The young agent looked like he was a nervous wreck and Dean didn't blame him. The guy probably thought he was going to die in that cabin. Dean had a feeling that any chance he might have had of Reid, knowingly or unknowingly, helping him find a way out of this situation had evaporated the moment he'd stormed out the door after Sam. "I'm sorry, Spencer."

The words slipped out, and Dean wanted to take them back immediately. His head wasn't on right, and he needed to watch his mouth, but Morgan wasn't wrong about him talking too much, especially when any subject was preferred to the one circling his mind.

"Sorry?" Morgan scoffed. "Which part are you sorry for, Winchester? The part where you kidnapped two of our people and held them captive? Or are you sorry for those grave desecration and destruction of property charges? The credit card fraud? The impersonating of an officer? What about those people you killed? You sorry about them?"

"Morgan," Reid said, quieting him.

"No, let him get it out. The guy's clearly pissed at me, and it's helping him nail the acting," Dean said, the cuffs around his wrists clicking as he waved one hand. "Bad cop wants to try his best to get me riled up, so that I'm defensive and not thinking right when your boss comes in. Mr. Suit and Tie probably thinks that because I listened to my dad's orders, I'll fall in line with him in the room. Then after Agent Authority Figure gets me nice and edgy, Spencer gets to remind me of my little brother, so I'll open up, spill my life story, tell you why I'm an evil son of a bitch …"

Dean trailed off, losing some of his cockiness by the end, because it only brought him back to the thought he was avoiding:

Sam was in trouble, and Dean couldn't do a damn thing to help him.

He blinked hard, and the room was silent for a few moments. When he opened his eyes, Morgan was glancing toward the two way mirror, as if in confirmation. The man stood up quickly after, walking back out the door. Leaving Dean with Reid. It should have been a relief, but Dean like there was a live wire under his skin.

"Are you okay, Dean?" Reid finally voiced.

Dean looked up sharply, surprised by the sincerity of the question. He shook his head, then forced himself to stop. "What the hell does it matter? I'm the criminal, remember?"

Reid stared back at him, looking skeptical. "We didn't have to wait long at the cabin. Our team found us quickly. They said someone called in a tip. It sounded like your voice."

Dean didn't answer, trying to find something to stare at in the small room.

"Roy wasn't in the shed. We think he got away," Reid continued. "We don't know if Walt ever made it to the area, but the locals are keeping an eye out for them."

"Of course he wasn't. The dick," Dean muttered.

Reid leaned forward at the response. "Garcia was worried that Roy might try to get back at her for her part in capturing him."

Dean shook his head. "Nah, guy's probably on the run. He's an asshole, but he won't go after you two. He's stupid, but not that stupid, and the damage is already done."

"That's comforting, I guess."

"One less crazy for you to worry about," Dean noted. "Hope you told your buddy how she smacked the crap out of that guy. He looks like he could use a laugh."

Reid nodded. "Did you find Sam, when you left the cabin?"

Dean shook his head stiffly. "The kids were there. No Sam." He swallowed down the name. "You figure out Ricky Trapp is your 'unsub'?"

Reid's expression said he was clearly affronted.

"Of course you did," Dean said, with a slight grin. "Did Sam write anything down about other locations? Would have left the notes in Roy's truck if he made any. He jots stuff down sometimes, and he said he figured there were a few other places the guy could have been holding the kids."

"They didn't find any notes, but we're compiling a list of our own," Reid said. "One of the agents you met when you were arrested, Rossi, he's headed to the next county, looking into the last place Ricky lived and worked and checking with his past co-workers. Sam didn't mention any other specifics when you were on the phone with him?"

"Wish he had," Dean replied. "By now, you know what I know."

"We've been looking into the Trapp family," Reid mentioned. "There are indicators of child abuse, hospital visits, time off from school, long before CPS stepped in. Then, there are the files on the two murders of the oldest Trapp children...I remembered your side of your conversation with Sam, when you said you believed the surviving sibling, Ricky, and his dead brother, Glenn, had worked together to kill their sister, Gina. How did Sam draw that conclusion?"

"Obviously you don't believe the part about the killer ghost, but yeah, basically." Dean rolled his shoulder and leaned back as far as his cuffs would allow. "Sam checked out their old home and the neighbors talked. He had a hunch that the place where Glenn died would have been important to Ricky, 'cause, you know ghosts, they love to haunt murder scenes."

"I don't know ghosts, actually," Reid noted, sounding far too serious about the subject. "That's why I asked you."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, well. The thing about ghosts is that they usually stick to one place, and the thing that gives them their connection to the world is typically their bones. But Glenn, well, he's figured out a way to see the sites. My guess is he's attached to something, an item that carries a piece of him. Could be something he wore in life, could be Ricky decided to carry around the guy's skull in the back seat. Who knows?"

"So, how would you stop the ghost from travelling?"

"Salt and burn the bones, or whatever's giving them a tie to the world. Spirits don't care for salt, and the burning seems to send them packin'." Dean cocked his head. "You can stop now, you know, this whole indulging the crazy person thing."

"I'm not indulging you," Reid explained. "You're indulging me. Why are you answering my questions, Dean? You don't have to. You know that no one here is going to believe that a ghost is helping the murderer, but you're answering the questions nevertheless."

Dean was quiet. Finally he let out a breath. "Because one day you might need to know."

Reid rapped his fingers across the table, looking down at them intently, as if he were trying to come to a decision. "And you want me to know how to help myself, if I ever face a ghost," he concluded. "To protect myself."

Reid pushed back his chair, standing.

"What now?" Dean asked, awkwardly.

"Now I go do my job," Reid answered.

* * *

Bright eyed and solemn, the boys sat side by side on the edge of the exam table in clean pajamas that the pediatrics ward had brought them when their clothes had been taken into evidence. Emily tried not to study them too closely, tried to keep her eyes on theirs, like she wasn't seeing the shadowed bruises on their skin, the little bulges of bandages under their clothes. Their injuries had already been documented, samples taken and tests being run. It had all felt so rushed, that Emily knew the kids were bone tired, emotionally and physically.

But the boys hadn't put up an argument when she'd asked to talk to them. They sat up straight as tin soldiers, their arms down at their sides. She noticed the way their shoulders brushed, their elbows knocking together, as if they wanted to stay aware of each other's presence, and her throat tightened. She hoped to God they didn't get separated again. It would be imperative to their recovery.

A woman from child services was sitting on a chair at the side of the bed, her gaze drifting from them to the agent, as if she wasn't sure what to expect. She was pale, her hair and dress suit the same tint as the beige walls, and she seemed to want to fade into them. Emily would have to guess this was probably her first time dealing with kidnapped children, and that wasn't a bad thing. She'd probably let Emily ask far more than she should, especially without the father present.

Emily tried to hide the sour taste in her mouth with a small, encouraging smile, but she was sure her feelings toward Mr. Gravitt had shown clearly enough when the man hadn't been sober enough to stay in the room while his children were questioned.

"Can I have the coat back?" Thomas said.

The youngest had been silent since she'd arrived, and Emily shifted in her chair. "Are you cold?" she asked. "The nurse can get you a warm blanket if you'd like."

The boy shook his head, looking put out. "It wasn't my coat. The man gave it to me, but I think I was supposed to give it back. The policewoman took it though."

Emily straightened. She hadn't heard about a coat, but she assumed it was taken in as evidence, along with the black Chevy the kids had been found inside.

"I'm sure he won't mind if we keep it a bit longer," she said, and caught Michael rolling his eyes. The older boy looked away from her, annoyed, so she focused her attention back on Thomas. "When did the man give it to you?"

Thomas shrugged his narrow shoulders, then winced in pain. "After the tall man saved me -"

"Sam," Michael corrected. "The tall guy was called Sam. The other guy was Dean. He said they were brothers."

Thomas nodded like he'd known as much. "Sam told me to get out. Then I ran into the other guy...Dean...on the sidewalk, and he gave me his coat and told me to find the blanket in his car. He promised he was going to get Michael. I don't when it was. Right before the police came."

Emily nodded along with the words. "Had you ever seen either of those men before?"

Another shrug of his shoulders. Michael shook his head, frustrated.

"Why are you asking about Sam and Dean? Those are the guys who saved us." Michael blurted. "Aren't you going to ask about the dicks who hurt us?"

Emily's brow furrowed as she noted Michael's quickly forged loyalty to the Winchesters. It chilled her that such dangerous men had so easily earned the kid's trust, but his response was a common one. She'd often seen it in victims of trauma discussing the rescue workers who'd come to their aid, but there was another detail in his response that held her attention. "Was there more than one person who took you and your brother?"

Michael froze, his mouth tight, like he was holding back. "No. Just one person. His name was Ricky."

Thomas glanced up at his brother, frowning, and Michael caught his eye, shaking his head. Emily frowned, realizing they were hiding something.

"If there was someone else involved, you can tell me," Emily assured. "Neither of you will be in trouble for telling me. We can keep you safe."

Even as she said it, she felt an icy stab of guilt. How was Michael ever going to believe such an assurance after she'd been the one to lose him. She was almost surprised when the kid didn't take such an easy shot against her.

"You wouldn't believe us if we did," Michael said, instead.

He leaned back slightly, head down, arm pressed firmly against his brother. He was retreating from the conversation. Emily straightened, trying to give him space.

"Michael, we need to know what happened," she tried softly. "Let's start over okay? From the beginning."

"I don't want to," Thomas said, fiddling with his fingertips. "I want to go home."

"Soon," Emily promised, and she kept her eyes off of the woman to the side, blending into the walls. She wasn't entirely sure that promise would work out if Mr. Gravitt couldn't pull himself together. "I just need to ask a few more questions. I wouldn't ask them if it wasn't important, but we need to catch the man who did this before he hurts someone else."

"He got him," Michael said, his voice so soft, Emily barely caught the comment.

Thomas heard him clearly enough, his lip out slightly in a frown that made him look impossibly younger. Emily wished she could just let him go back to being a nine-year-old instead of putting him through this.

"Are we talking about the night Thomas was taken?" Emily asked.

Michael's gaze raised, bright, wet. "That's why you're asking about the guys who saved us, right? Because the… the bad guy, he took Sam, didn't he?"

Emily swallowed hard. "Why would you think that, Michael?"

Michael reached up, pinching between his eyes, like he could hide the wetness gathering there. His jaw tightened. "Because it's the last thing I saw before I ran away. He was standing behind Sam...He was going to hurt him, and I ran." He shook his head angrily. "I ran instead of helping, and then Sam never came out."

Emily reached out, lightly touching the boy's hand. "You did the right thing, Michael. You couldn't have taken him on your own. It was good that stayed with your brother."

The words spilled out of her like a recording, but her thoughts were travelling in an entirely different direction. She needed to get in touch with Hotch _now_. She wasn't sure how this was going to help them, but the team needed to know. Their killer already had another victim.

* * *

Sam's vision blurred slightly from the blow. It hadn't been the hardest punch he'd ever taken, not by any means. Whatever the ghost had done when he'd grabbed hold of Sam's head, that had been what had winded him. He had barely regained his wits when he realized both of his arms were tied, spread wide and apart and forcing his back flat against a cement block wall.

He blinked again, his blood rushing as he vaguely remembered being lead from the garage, then pushed down the stairs by gunpoint, the ghost meeting him in the basement with a smile. The restraints themselves were a blur. He leaned his head forward, turning to see that each wrist was tied to a shelf bracket. The low shelf's plank must have been removed easily enough, but the brackets were screwed well into the stone.

Sam opened and closed his fists, testing the knots on the rope, and bit back a groan of frustration when they didn't give. The position was an awkward one, his long torso allowing him to sit if his arms were painfully outstretched. He scrambled to pull his legs under him and raise himself to his knees and realized his boots were missing. That couldn't be good.

"Save your strength. We'll be starting soon."

The voice startled him, and he realized that it had come from across the basement, past the shadowy silhouette of the staircase. The dim yellow light at the center of the space didn't do much to help him see, but when Ricky moved, he realized the man was sitting next to a card table, watching him.

"Guess you had to find a new place to take your victims," Sam noted, hating that his voice slurred a bit. Whatever the ghost had done to him had left him feeling like he'd been drinking shots all morning. "Sorry about that."

Ricky shrugged. "The owners are out of town. They left their grandfather to house-sit, unfortunately."

Sam shook his head. "Guess if you were willing to kill children, I shouldn't be surprised that you'd hurt the elderly," he sneered. "Is that how you and your brother get your jollies? Murdering people who can't defend themselves?"

"Being old didn't make him a saint," Ricky snapped. "He might have been clean cut and had a nice job, nice house, perfect little family, but he was almost as mean as my pops. Just in a different way."

Sam's brow lifted in understanding. No wonder he couldn't remember the ride here. It hadn't lasted long at all. They were only a mile or so from the closed-down flower shop. "This was the foster family you stayed with."

Ricky didn't answer

Sam could make out the shape of the man better as his eyes adjusted to the light. Ricky's dark eyes glimmered brightly as he rubbed at his temple with prodding finger, the shadow of a grimace on his face. His hand was shaking as he reached out for something on the table. A pill bottle, Sam realized, as he heard its contents rattle.

Another form materialized next to Ricky. Glenn had died a teenager, and from the distance, even Sam would have thought he looked young and lanky, harmless. The ghost bent over, forcing Ricky to meet his eye.

"Not too many of those," Glenn warned. He reached out, touching his brother's shoulder lightly. "I know it hurts, but it won't be long now."

"We have to hurry," Ricky said, so softly that Sam could barely hear him. "We can't wait much longer."

"It'll be okay," Glenn assured. "This'll turn out for the best, just watch. You didn't want to use any little kids anyway, did you?"

Ricky shook his head, looking petulant. "But how do we know his brother is going to come. The cops -"

Sam stilled at the mention of Dean. In the back of his mind, he'd been sure of the same thing, that Dean would come after him, no matter what. But for once he hoped his brother didn't read into the clues.

"Don't worry about them," Glenn assured. "He'll get here soon. We'll make sure of it. Just concentrate on doing your part. It's your favorite, after all, the watching."

"I can do that," Ricky finally said.

He reached across the table, picking up something small and boxy. Sam didn't recognize what it was until the man flipped open one side, the screen casting his face with a sinister blue glow. A digital camcorder. Sam swallowed hard, his fingers curling into fists as the Trapp brothers both turned their attention to him.

Glenn smiled slowly. "Let's send big brother our invitation."


	12. My Best Unbeaten Brother

It was the calm before the storm.

There was a busy, frantic nature to the sheriff's department that was lacking now. It wasn't a complete ghost town, and in actuality more people than before were now on board with the case. Before the boys had been recovered, extra agents from the Birmingham field office had arrived to do their part, the city police station calling in every officer they had for the joint operation. Now that the kidnapping was no longer priority, that force was spread out across the county, looking for their subject. An unsub who was no longer unknown, but had a name, a face, a history.

Morgan knew he should feel confident. They'd captured an infamous criminal, recovered their people, recovered their victims, and the profile, their best weapon, would be stronger than ever thanks to the history they were gathering on Ricky Trapp. This was the part of the case they lived for, saving people, taking down the bad guys.

So why did he feel like he was sitting still, waiting for something terrible to happen.

"This doesn't feel right, Hotch," he finally voiced.

Hotch didn't answer, watching Reid as they exited the viewing room and the younger agent joined them in the short hallway outside the interview room. He wordlessly tilted his head slightly, directing the two agents to follow him back to the work space they'd taken over, and Morgan understood his silence as an agreement. The unit chief wanted to talk to them in private, probably about the interview they'd just watched Reid perform.

Morgan wondered if Hotch felt as conflicted as he did over the easy way Reid was able to talk to the guy. He'd seen Reid connect with criminals before - it was part of the job - but there was something more genuine in the way he'd spoken to Dean Winchester, and for some reason, that raised Morgan's hackles in a way he hadn't expected.

"What was that back there?" Morgan blurted, as soon as they closed the door behind them.

Hotchner shot him a pointed glance, keeping him from going on, and Morgan realized he'd either overstepped or voiced what Hotch was thinking. Probably the latter, even if the man didn't admit it.

"What was your take-away from that interview?" Hotch asked, refocusing on Reid.

Reid shifted his weight slightly, rolling his lips in to bite them, a nervous tic Morgan usually noticed appeared when Reid was about to change direction with a theory.

"I don't think Dean is withholding any information on Trapp, but I think we should leave the line of communication open. Dean's a protector, Hotch. If he had a way to protect others, even by simply sharing information, I think he would," Reid said, leaning against the work table.

Morgan could see how tired he was, near ready to collapse, and he suddenly wished they'd made Winchester wait longer before engaging. Reid hadn't been ready for a confrontation. Maybe none of them had been. Morgan wanted to talk to Hotch again, alone. Point out what they'd skipped right over; the interview _they_ should have had with Reid. They'd talked to him, gotten a quick glimpse of what had happened in that cabin, in that overly-Reid way he liked to speed through stories, but they hadn't interviewed him yet. Or Garcia. It was a misstep on their part, he was realizing. He wondered if Hotch was thinking the same thing.

"We know the guy has a savior complex," Morgan said, shaking his head, "but it extends mostly to his brother. His protection of his brother trumps everyone else in Winchester's head. He could still be holding back if he was afraid it would put Sam in danger."

Hotch cocked his head slightly at Reid, ignoring Morgan's comment. "Was he protective of you and Penelope when you were taken?"

Reid's cheek twitched. "He went out of his way to make sure we were comfortable and fed, and when the gunman appeared, he and Sam checked to make sure we were safe first. It was sincere, Hotch. As delusional as their belief in the boogeyman might be, both of these men choose to protect those who can't protect themselves. In their minds, that's what it means to be a hunter. It's not just about finding a monster to kill, it's about saving the monster's victims."

"I hear you, Reid," Morgan said, shaking his head, "and I'm sure in their messed up heads, that's what they think they're doing, but these guys abducted you to keep themselves hidden. They put you in direct danger."

"Because lives were on the line," Reid said. "They did it to give themselves more time to find the unsub… Their monster. In this case, a ghost, it appears. And they did, find him, I mean. They might have adjusted the history to fit their story, but they still found out about the Trapp family before we did. They're decent profilers."

Hotch straightened. "Serial killers also make decent profilers," he noted, an echo of something they'd said in times past.

Reid made a face, like he'd sucked on a lemon, and Morgan could read the younger agent's response well enough. "You don't think Dean Winchester is a killer, do you?" Morgan scoffed.

"Have you read the report from St. Louis?" Reid returned. "It's inconsistent, which is something I pointed out to Agent Henricksen when he wanted my opinion on the Winchesters' profiles. And the case in Baltimore, where Dean was framed by a detective, the real killer's partner, a Detective Diana Ballard even -"

"The ex-homicide detective," Morgan interrupted. "The woman who flushed her career after the incident with her partner."

Hotch tapped him lightly on the arm, and Morgan almost went off before catching himself. He was worked-up more than he should have been, and he knew full well his frustration needed to be directed at the Trapp case instead of this. But he also knew why it was getting under his skin. He'd thought they, his teammates, his family, were going to die. He'd been scared out of his mind that he was about to lose two people he cared deeply about. And he was supposed to, what, be subjective about the assholes who'd taken them?

He shook his head but realized that Hotch had alerted him for another reason. Garcia was tromping toward the glass door to the work room, Prentiss close to her side, as if to keep her from toppling over. The analyst seemed to wobble in the over-sized medical boot over her foot.

"Aren't you supposed to be in the hospital?" Hotch asked.

Morgan saw the hint of a smile on the otherwise stern man's face, and knew that she wouldn't be sent back any time soon. Garcia must have noted it as well, her eyes wide with false innocence.

"I might need to after the tackle-hug I just received from J.J.," she commented. "She told us where to find our fierce knights, but one seems to be missing from the round table. Where's our dear Agent Rossi?"

"He's taken a few agents from the Birmingham office with him to the next county over to see what he can learn from our subject's neighbors and past co-workers," Morgan answered. "We still don't know what set this guy off."

Garcia made a face. "Well, never fear, I'm here for all your stressor-y theories. I'll get you every stitch of dirty laundry on Ricky Trapp before you can say 'grade two ankle sprain.' On that note, I'm sitting."

Morgan huffed out a laugh. "You know, we have other techs."

Garcia narrowed her gaze on him, but she was already reaching across the table for the closest laptop. "And it's cute that you think they'll have your info first."

Hotch turned his attention to Prentiss. "Were you able to interview the Gravitt boys?"

Emily nodded curtly, and Morgan's brow knitted with concern when he saw the hesitant look on the woman's face. "We'll need to see them again," she started, then let out a breath, "but I thought I should escort Garcia here. I learned something interesting from Michael Gravitt. If he's right, we have another problem."

"Sam was there, wasn't he?" Reid asked, quietly.

Morgan looked over his shoulder, but the younger agent's face was oddly blank, like he was schooling his features.

Emily's grimace was answer enough. "He was there. Both boys insisted Sam Winchester rescued them from their kidnapper and that Dean arrived shortly after to help them. But what concerns me is what Michael said. He stated that the last time he saw Sam, the 'bad guy' was standing behind Winchester. He seemed certain that Sam had been taken by Trapp."

Morgan winced when he realized his first thought was that this would make things easier. If they found Trapp, they'd find their absent Winchester too. He hated that the fact that someone else was now in danger came second place to his rationality.

"But how would Ricky Trapp subdue Sam?" Morgan asked. "The guy is six-four, and weighs in at what? Two-twenty? All of the past victims were small built, physically weaker."

Emily tilted her head. "Michael said Trapp was about to hurt Sam. I'm not sure what he meant, but that seemed to indicate he still had a weapon. I couldn't get an answer from the boys, but there was a moment when I was certain they were about to tell me that Trapp had an accomplice."

"The Winchesters think it's the ghost of Trapp's older brother," Reid put in. "Maybe that was their way of explaining an unknown partner."

Morgan nodded along. It made sense. When they'd thought the Winchesters were their unsubs, the idea of a pair of killers abducting and dumping bodies had filled in a few logistical blanks.

"Okay, I'm hoping you're all super wrong on all accounts," Garcia piped in, the click of her fingers across the keyboard coming to a still. She looked up with a frown at Reid. "Do you think Dean knows his brother might be in trouble?" she asked.

Morgan blinked at the two's somber expressions, baffled, because if he was reading her frown right, she was worried. About the Winchesters, of all people. He definitely needed to get Hotch alone. Reid and Garcia weren't ready to be working on this case.

A curt knock sounded from the door, but it was already open, Sheriff McKinney's face looking haggard for a man his age as he leaned in, obviously too busy to come inside.

"Agent Hotchner, we just received a private message on our social media page. It had a link to a video attachment. Your team needs to see it. Now."

"Oh God…"

The utterance came from Garcia, whose fingers had already been flying across the keyboard, and if anyone wanted to call her out on having the department's passwords, they kept quiet when they saw the look on her paled face. She pushed herself back from the computer, eyes wet with unshed tears.

Her mouth opened and closed once. "Sam," she whispered.

* * *

Trapp's last home address had been a run-down apartment that had already taken up a new tenant in his absence. The landlord, the closest neighbor, the new renter, had all been a bust, none of them remembering even a full conversation they'd ever shared with Trapp. Rossi had left an officer there to go through a few personal items, mostly furniture, that had been left behind in the apartment's shared basement, but he doubted there would be anything of use in there. Rossi had a feeling that Ricky had known he'd never return to the area, lost deposit or not, so the agent had moved on to the hardware store where the man had been working up to a little over two months ago.

The senior agent followed behind an older woman who waddled slightly as she walked, a hand outstretched to straighten items on the closest shelf as he followed behind. He wasn't exactly receiving her full attention, but he was at least glad that she was willing to talk, and he hoped that since she wasn't bothering to stop working, she'd also wouldn't bother to hold back on what she said. So far, he'd been right.

" - And he never, I mean, never, bothered to learn what anything did. I had customers always complaining that the guy couldn't answer their questions when they asked him about tools and whatnot, but what was I supposed to do, right? I mean, he was mostly a cashier, after all, and the guy showed up on time, had a sense of hygiene, and helped put out stock without being asked, so, so what if he was a little socially awkward?"

Rossi hummed some sort of agreement, his eyes skimming over the items on the shelf. He was getting a good idea of where Trapp had managed to pick up most of the items he needed to subdue his victims. He doubted that Kathy, the woman showing him around, had noticed that the man had probably been stealing stock over days, if not weeks, so that he wouldn't raise suspicions. The shop wasn't huge, but it was big enough to supply a small town with their basic needs, and Rossi couldn't help but notice it also housed a gun shop in the far corner, a perk of living in the deep south for those who wanted to get their ammo where they got their socket wrenches.

He made a mental note to ask Kathy to obtain the inventory count for the gun shop before he left. He had a feeling she'd have an unwelcome surprise when she checked their numbers.

"The owner liked him okay too," Kathy noted, a little defensively, as if her mind had just circled back to the fact that she was bragging on the work ethics of someone the FBI was questioning her about. "I mean, Steven's health isn't great, so he doesn't come in most days, but when Ricky said he was quitting, he asked about the old work van we had out back, and Steven gave it to him as a severance. I mean, the clunker wasn't worth more than a few hundred for parts anyway, since it didn't have its title, but it was a nice gesture, I thought."

"What type of van was it?" Rossi asked, his interest perked.

"Don't know. Chevy maybe. You'd have to ask Steven for sure. Just a big ugly brown thing they used to deliver supplies in." She shrugged. "I mean, I think it was running though, so Steven figured Ricky could use it to go to his treatments. Not that Ricky talked like he was going to go through with them."

"Treatments?"

Kathy did stop then, turning around with a frown. "What did he do anyway? I mean the guy was sick already. What could he have done to get the feds on his tail?"

Rossi forced a small grin. "He was sick when you knew him?"

Kathy nodded. "Yeah, I mean he was always the sickly sort, even though he didn't miss work for it. But, after he got that diagnosis, it started to make more sense, the way he'd been actin'. Hate to stir the pot," she said, her voice lowering slightly. She gave the next aisle a glance, as if checking for customers before she continued, "but the guy had started muttering to himself real bad. Like, when he was doing stock work, I'd catch him, think he was talking to someone, then I'd find him alone, hard at work. But I hear brain tumors can do that to people, make them act off their rocker, you know?"

Rossi swallowed hard, his fingertips already fishing the phone out of his pocket. "Tough break. When did Ricky get the diagnosis?"

"Same week he quit. Couldn't blame him for going. Hated having to re-hire though. No one wants to work these days, I swear… Hey, what did you say he'd done?"

Rossi raised a hand in apology. "Sorry, I need to take this."

He was almost surprised when he turned to walk away and saw that he did have an incoming call from a familiar number. He bit down a smile.

"Penelope, as I live and breathe," he greeted. "You don't know how good it is to see your name across the screen again."

"Aw, you do care," she cooed, but she didn't sound like her usual self. He couldn't blame her for that, not after what she'd been through. And now that he thought about it, he wondered what on earth she was doing back on the job already.

"To what do I owe the honor?" he asked, instead.

"Hotch wanted me to let you know that amongst the big pile of terrifying evidence found at the florist-shop-turned-torture-chamber were personal items belonging to Ricky Trapp, including an empty bottle of a medication called Tramadol, which is commonly used for pain relief, and something told us it wasn't being distributed to his victims. So…"

"He has a brain tumor," Rossi finished, for her. He walked out of the store, lowering his voice slightly until he hit the sidewalk. "I think we found our stressor."

She sighed. "Well, steal my thunder then."

"One of his ex-co-workers said he'd been talking to himself, behaving oddly…"

"Huh." Penelope paused. "Or maybe not to himself, if he thinks he's talking to his dead older brother, which, hey, I can see how someone might mistake that as a ghostly visitation," she mused. "Are you headed back our way?"

Rossi frowned, not liking the slight neediness to her tone. He didn't blame her for not being herself, after what she'd been through. Hell, he wasn't even sure he knew what she'd been through exactly, since his updates from Hotch and Morgan had been somewhat fixated on the fact that she and Reid were alive and well. He wanted to ask, but it seemed like something better left discussed face to face.

"While I adore these talks of ours, is there a reason you're the one calling me back instead of Hotch?"

"He's in an interview right now. With Dean. Winchester." She was quiet a moment before she continued. "Something...Something happened. Ricky Trapp has already taken another victim. It's Sam Winchester. There was a video, and it was not good. I mean, more than not good, since I was watching someone I just spent a very stressful day with get...Yeah. And I'm maybe wanting all my little birds in one nest, okay? So come back? Group meeting?"

"Hotch did say to head back when I finished." Rossi's brow furrowed in confusion. He could recognize the fear in her voice, but he wasn't sure what it was causing it. All he was certain of was that she needed comforting, and that their teammates were too busy at the moment to provide it. "Okay, I've obviously missed a few things here, kiddo," he said. "It's not a long ride back toward Attalla. Why don't I stay on the line while you're working? We can bounce around some ideas while you work some miracles on that computer of yours."

"I just… I'm not wanting to rewatch this video alone, and I kind of need to if I'm going to help..." Her voice cut off with a short sob. "I really, really need to help."

"You are helping," Rossi assured her. "Now, why don't I fill you in on what you missed, and you can tell me what's been going on at the sheriff's department."

"Thanks, Rossi."

"It's no problem, Penelope."

* * *

Dean could feel it, the second the interrogation room door opened again, that something had changed. For starters, he'd been in this situation enough times to know that they hadn't made him sweat nearly long enough to start in on round two. And then there was the fact that it was Agent Hard Glare entering first, carrying a thick file folder, which was what Dean had predicted earlier, hence the reason he'd doubted it would happen now.

Dean expected to see Reid walk in behind him, but the door was promptly shut, and despite himself, Dean sat up a bit straighter, more alert than he had been. He glanced sideways at the two-way glass, wondering who was watching him.

"I'm Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner," the man stated. He slapped the folder down onto the table, taking the seat across from Dean. "Don't look at the mirror," he snapped.

Dean blinked at him, opening his mouth to reply, only to see Agent Hotcher's sharp look of distaste.

"You will look at me," Agent Hotchner continued. "I will be the only agent you have contact with until you are transferred to another holding facility. Do you understand me?"

"Are you kidding me with this act?" Dean huffed. He squirmed a bit, annoyed at himself for sweating under the other man's hard gaze. It wasn't like it was a new situation for him, but something about the general disappointment on the agent's face hit too close to home for comfort. "We already went over the segment where you act like my dad, or did you miss that part of my talk with your fellow feds?"

Hotchner's frown deepened. "Your father was paranoid and delusional, dragging his kids across the country to hunt the boogeyman because he couldn't face his own grief. I am not your father, Dean."

"You sure as hell aren't," Dean said. He knew this was part of the show, but the words pissed him off, nevertheless. "Boy, you're a real peach. I'm sure you're fun to work for. You are the boss, right? Or do they just pass that baton up your ass to anyone willing to take it?"

Agent Hotchner cocked his head slightly. "I am the boss. Which means, I can tell when my agents have been compromised. Agent Morgan might be too foolish to realize that you're purposely trying to get under his skin, and Dr. Reid might be too naive to notice that you're using him to get information on the case, but I am not. From now on, you will talk only to me. Understood?"

Was this guy for real? Dean could feel the heat on his face, and barely had time to recognize it as anger. "I'm not using Spencer. You're the ones asking me questions. You sent him in here -"

"He's a young agent, easily manipulated," Hotchner interrupted. "We'll leave it to an overview committee to decide if he needs to stay in this line of work if he can't handle a simple interview with a felon."

The cuffs around Dean's wrists jingled as he instinctively tried to lift his arms. He grimaced at the noise. "He didn't do anything wrong, you asshat," he snapped. "His job shouldn't be on the line just because he acted like a decent human being."

"Glad to see human beings exist in your little fantasy world," Hotchner mused. "Unfortunately, it doesn't look very good for an agent to find themselves kidnapped by their suspect, then discussing ghost hunting with their abductor. I'd say his mental health was more than a little questionable at this point."

"Leave Spencer out of this!" Dean shook his head. "You want to ask me questions? Want me to confess to something? Then you ask me. I took the guy. I threatened him and Penelope. They feared for their friggin' lives, okay, so anything you think he did wrong, it was on me."

Agent Hotchner was quiet, his expression hard and unreadable as he locked eyes with Dean, forcing the other man to stare him down. Dean realized his breathing was too loud and tried to calm it, tried to match the man's silence, and failed.

"What?" he finally snapped.

Hotchner only looked down, at the file folder at his fingertips. He flipped it open, his demeanor more subdued as he removed an enlarged photograph, sliding it to the center of the table.

"What were you hunting in St. Louis?" Agent Hotchner asked. His voice was lower, the emotion gone as he removed another photo, sitting it next to the first. "Why were you involved in a bank heist in Milwaukee? What creature led you to the dead bodies of Tony and Karen Giles?"

The third photo was sat in place, and the agent leaned back, as if inviting Dean to look at them. Dean did, a quick glance down, seeing the last one was Karen Giles' autopsy photo. The first, the first was from a crime scene so brutal that Dean wouldn't have recognized it if St. Louis hadn't been brought up. And the picture front and center was Ronald.

Dean felt a pang of regret at the recognition. The guy shouldn't have been there. Shouldn't have been a victim in a folder somewhere. Ronald, who had been at least half right about what was going down, who had died because they couldn't keep him out of it, couldn't lie well enough to convince him to leave it alone. Ronald, who was probably written off as some nut taking part in a bank robbery. Dean could still remember the look on the man's face when the bullet hit his body.

"What were you hunting?" Hotchner asked, again Dean thought, though he couldn't recall for certain.

Dean chewed at the inside of his cheek. "Shape-shifter," he said, nearly at a whisper. He blinked, hoping that what he was feeling wasn't showing on the outside, then shot Hotchner a look of his own. "What do you want from me?"

"I want you to tell me everything your brother said before he found Trapp's hideout."

The words were careful, said slowly, like he wanted to make sure they sunk in.

"I already told you everything I know," Dean assured him. He swallowed hard, biting down a more bitter retort. "But I guess you just needed to make sure, right? Maybe you can ask Sam if you find him. He's the one who put this one together."

It was subtle, the agent's slight shift in his seat, but Dean noticed. He'd been watching for it. He locked eyes with Hotchner again, and he knew his gaze was probably a bit too wet for his liking. He'd forgotten how much a simple hunt could hurt them. Between Hell and Heaven, demon gates opening and biblical seals breaking, it didn't seem like a simple ghost hunt could possibly bring them to their knees.

But that was exactly how Dean felt, shackled, his prayers unheard. "You... " He tried again. "Did you find Sam?" he managed.

Agent Hotchner took a moment to answer. "No. We didn't."

"What aren't you saying?"

"You see yourselves as hunters," Agent Hotchner replied, and the cruelness at his lips disappeared as easily as a mask dropping from his face. "We see you as criminals, because that's what you are. Credit card fraud, robbery, impersonating law enforcement, impeding investigations. But I don't think you're a murderer, Dean. You didn't torture and kill those victims in St. Louis. Neither did Sam. Whatever you might have done in the past, it was because you thought it was right. That's why you took Reid and Garcia, because you didn't want to hurt them, but you needed to keep doing your job."

"You know, you're scarier when you're being nice," Dean commented.

Hotchner pretended not to hear him. "This job, though? This is ours. This is our hunt. The best thing you can do, the right thing? It's to let us do what we do best. We're going to find your monster, Dean."

The man gathered the pictures up quickly, and Dean could see there were more in the file, more images he never wanted to see again, more that Hotchner could have shown him if he hadn't believed Dean was telling the truth. The agent turned quickly, walking toward the door with purpose, but then, Dean figured he probably walked that way everywhere.

"Agent Hotchner," Dean called, and the man stilled in the door way. Dean didn't want to ask, because he already knew what the guy was holding back. He had since before he'd been cuffed. "They have Sam. I know it … Did they send a picture yet?"

Hotchner didn't answer, closing the door behind him as he left.

* * *

The door was left askew, and Reid could just make Hotch's muffled voice as he quietly briefed J.J. and Rossi on what their next move would be. He tried not to focus on what was going on outside the room, but on the board that had been set up over their work space, the one Morgan was currently glaring at with such intensity that Reid thought it might, at any second, catch fire. That's what he should have been focusing on as well, the case, not Hotch's instructions on keeping Dean in his new holding cell or his take on the interview.

Reid sighed to himself, turning away from the doorway and glancing the empty chair Penelope had been all but glued to over the past hour. Prentiss had finally convinced her to quit rewatching the video and to take a breather in the department's break room, but Reid wished she was still nearby. In fact, a part him wished he could get her alone, talk to her about what was happening. Penelope wasn't a profiler, but he had a feeling that she'd be more helpful to him than Morgan right now. Or, at least, maybe she could confirm that it was okay for him to feel terrible over what was happening to Sam Winchester. That he wasn't alone in feeling a bizarre sense of responsibility for someone who'd abducted them less than two days ago.

Morgan, who was in an altogether different state of mind after the last interrogation with Dean, couldn't provide that comfort. Morgan had lost that fierce anger he'd been wearing on his sleeve after Dean's arrest but now appeared somewhat lost by the information in front of him. Reid wanted to comment on what the other agent had been holding back, the cause of that frustrated expression on his face, but he kept quiet, even as Morgan muttered to himself, going over what they'd learned about Ricky Trapp, about his illness, about what that meant for their case.

"We're certain Ricky Trapp has been responsible for more murders than the ones committed over the past few months," Morgan said. "He might have even been involved with his siblings' deaths, but that's doubtful."

Reid wasn't sure if that was the case, but he didn't want to admit that he wondered if Sam had formed an opinion on that part of the Trapp history. Not that Sam was available to talk to at the moment.

"So what that leaves us with is a serial killer turned spree," Morgan continued. "His doctor hands him a death sentence, and he starts to shorten his time between kills. And there's a good chance he's delusional as well. Garcia and Rossi are right," Morgan said, a bit louder, as if he'd just remembered he wasn't alone. "A guy talking to his dead brother, that would make you think haunting, if you believed in that crap already." He glanced over his shoulder at Reid. "But how did the Winchesters pick up on it if they hadn't already had a run-in with Trapp?"

"I think they profiled the late Glenn Trapp, in their own way," Reid mused. "Maybe Ricky's brother isn't just talking to him, but giving him instructions like a dominant partner, or a dominant personality. That could explain why it was easier to profile for two unsubs. In a way, that's exactly what we're after, Ricky and the voice in his head, giving him instructions. It's two very different personalities."

"Yeah, but if this guy is sick, how is he pulling this off. Killing and dumping victims isn't exactly easy." Morgan shook his head. "A real partner would explain how he's gotten away with this for so long and why we haven't found another location secure enough to keep a victim inside… Unfortunately, I have no idea who the hell that partner might be since, by all accounts, Ricky Trapp is the definition of a loner. Hell, Garcia can't even find much of an internet presence for the guy. Outside of teaching himself how to tape his victims, he doesn't seem to even have the technological know-how to meet another like-minded individual."

Reid shrugged. "We know Ricky's mental health has declined, but since he's avoided the doctor since his diagnosis, we have no clue as to the rest of his physical state. If the tumor hasn't damaged his health in any other way yet, him being sick might not have affected his physical strength. And he's armed. Also, Hotch didn't play the video."

Morgan blinked. "That's a bit of a change in subject."

Reid crossed his arms over his chest. "I was expecting Hotch to show Dean the recording. To get a reaction from Dean."

"I don't think a psychotic break would be the reaction Hotch was going for," Morgan said, with a frown. "Do you think showing him his brother like that would have helped matters?"

No, Reid really didn't think it would. He'd watched from the two-way mirror, anxious for the moment when Hotch would tell Dean about the message, not wanting to see the look on Dean's face when his fears were confirmed. It had already been difficult watching his boss tear into him, and devastation was never pleasant, no matter who was on the receiving end. Reid had been relieved, if surprised, when Hotch had walked out without answering Dean's question.

"Do you think Hotch really believes Dean is innocent?"

Morgan was quiet a moment, his eyes searching for something on Reid's face. His brow lowered slightly in thought. "I don't know if I'd use the word innocent. But a serial killer torturing his victims…? I think Hotch was telling the truth in there. That's why he didn't take the interview any further. Why do you look so surprised by that? It was your info he was working with. You know Hotch didn't mean any of that stuff he said to get Winchester riled up, though, right? No one thinks…"

"That I've been compromised," Reid finished for him. "I know why Hotch said what he said, but there's a grain of truth in there, isn't there? You and Hotch both...You were worried that Garcia and I were displaying sympathy for Dean. I saw it on your face when she asked me about him. What's changed?"

Morgan opened his mouth, then seemed to realize he didn't have much of an answer. "You're right," he finally said. "I don't like the guy, Reid. I was beyond pissed and scared with you two were taken, then to hear you playing nice with him? But it hit me back there, when Hotch was putting Winchester through the ringer, that I trust you, Reid. I'd gotten too caught up in my thoughts to remember that, but I do trust you, and your instincts as a profiler. You were with the Winchesters for over twenty-four hours. You saw behavior that you recognized, and even though it went against what we all thought we knew about them, you followed your gut."

"Thanks." Reid realized he was staring down at his shoes, fighting back a small smile that felt inappropriate, given the circumstances. "You know, Dean reminds me of you a little bit."

"You better take that the hell back," Morgan scoffed.

Reid let out a breathy chuckle before sobering. "We can help Sam."

Morgan nodded. "We're going to. This Ricky Trapp, voices in his head or not, his pattern is holding. He'll make a move for Dean before he kills Sam. He won't be able to resist that urge. If he was going to skip that step, he wouldn't have sent the video."

"But Trapp knows where Dean is right now. He sent the video to the sheriff's department. Surely he wouldn't be brazen enough to actually try to get him here. He isn't that far gone."

"Nah," Morgan agreed. "But I'll bet you Hotch has a plan for how we can get him to make a move. We told you how he took Michael Gravitt?"

"During transport. Using Dean as bait?" Reid asked. "Then we're going to move him… I need to ask Dean something before we do. It's been nagging at me."

"What is it?"

"The florist shop. Dean said Sam chose to go there first. We've checked out the other places Sam might have suspected as being a hideout for Trapp, but I'm still puzzled by the florist shop."

Morgan raised a brow. "I thought we established that Ricky chose it because the brother, Glenn, was killed there. All of this is about big bro, after all."

Reid nodded. "No, I mean, yes, we did, but that's the reason why Ricky decided to use the abandoned shop. What I'm confused by was why Glenn was there when he died all those years back. It was already shut down at the time, and it's not near the Trapp home. Maybe it was a popular teen hang out back then? Or did it have significance to the Trapp family? I'm curious to know if there was more than one reason why Sam chose to check that location first… Maybe Dean could guess at his brother's reasoning."

"You think that could help us figure out where he took Sam?"

"Wouldn't hurt to try," Reid suggested. "Like you said, this is all about Glenn."

Morgan let out a sigh. "You're going to ask Winchester whether I agree with you or not, aren't you?"

Reid's crooked grin was humorless as he slipped out the doorway, but Morgan didn't follow after him. Reid considered asking Hotch for permission, but he had the nagging suspicion that there was a chance his unit chief might want to tag along. Reid kept his head down, his hands buried in his pockets as he headed past the littering of desks and toward the hallway leading to the department's temporary holding area.

Even though the county was fairly small, they had an updated facility for processing. There was a corridor of windowed doors, paired with keypads just a ways down, and if Reid had to guess, there wasn't a single suspect in any of the rooms but one. The sheriff had taken Hotch seriously when he'd said he wanted to keep Winchester's stay quiet.

_Pop._

Reid came to a stop, realizing the noise had come from behind him. Somewhere distant. Outside the building. And there was a sudden rush of activity that met it, a trampling of footsteps, an echo of shouts. He thought he heard his teammates shouting instructions. Reid turned back, hesitating, listening.

_Pop. Pop._

It took him another second to realize what the sound was: gunshots. Judging from the location, someone had fired a gun just outside the front wall of the building. Before he could react, there was another sound, that unmistakable squeal of tires before a thunderous crunch of metal.

_Something's happening._

A chill ran over him at the thought, and Reid shivered despite himself. He opened his mouth, Morgan's name on the tip of his tongue, and hesitated when his breath clouded at his lips. It hadn't felt this cold a moment ago, but Reid had no time to wonder what might have happened to the heating system before the fluorescent light above him flickered, surging and ebbing.

A second later, the power went out, casting the hallway in shadows.


	13. The Man Comes Around

"Well, this is a trap," Dean muttered, into the darkness.

The pitch black lightened to a dull gray, the outside corridor's back-up lights barely casting a glow through the narrow, wired glass window in the door of his cell. The sounds from the front of the building came through muffled by thick walls of cement block, but they were loud enough for Dean to realize some sort of disaster had struck over the last three minutes, enough to get all the hornets in the nest stirred up. Even so, the harsh beep and electric sizzle from the keypad at the front of his cell was especially loud. With a whine, the door swung out a few inches.

Dean stood from the cot slowly, giving the beige room a glance, as if he were considering its tiny space a better offer than the hall outside. He grimaced at the thought of walking straight into the mess, but there were only two ways to handle the offer of an open door, and both would probably lead to the same conclusion.

_The faster we get this over with, the fast I get to Sam._ Dean straightened, resolved, and stepped past the doorway. The chill that greeted him wasn't his imagination, he was sure. He expected an armed guard, a threat, but the deputy who'd been pacing the space a few minutes earlier had disappeared. Instead, he found familiar brown eyes, wide in surprise and surveying him in the dim light. Reid was standing at the end of the hall, blocking the way back into the front of the building, not that Dean had planned to take that particular route of escape.

"Spencer," he said, voice at a whisper. He attempted an awkward grin. "Would you believe me if I said I had nothing to do with this?"

Reid blinked at him, as if just then concluding the man was really there. "The power surge, it must have damaged the locking mechanisms… I think a car might have hit a power pole outside. You need to get back into your cell."

Dean opened and closed his mouth. "So, I'm really gambling on you not shooting me when I say this, but no. I really need to go. Like now."

Reid raised a placating hand, either to stop Dean or to show that he wasn't pulling a weapon. Dean wasn't sure, but the man looked so adamant that he stopped himself from taking an automatic step backward.

"Listen to me, Dean. You're safer here." Reid took a short, cautious step forward. "We have a plan to save Sam. You've got to let us do our jobs. Just get back in the cell so that we can protect you."

"I know you really mean that, Spencer, I do." Dean shook his head. "But this thing is coming for me, with or without you between us. Let me get out of here and get to it. Sam and I, we can handle these bastards, but I need to find where they are first. This is the best way to do it."

"That's a stupid plan, Dean," Reid snapped.

"Hey, man, stupid is what Winchesters do best. I know I have no right to say this, but you gotta trust me here."

Dean took a breath, hoping the agent didn't make a move to stop him, and stepped backward, glancing over his shoulder at the end of the corridor. He had no doubt there was probably an exit cleared and waiting for him back there, and he'd be damned if he left the bad guy waiting.

"Wait!"

Dean hesitated, despite himself, and looked back to Reid, frustration in his frown.

"Just…" Reid tried, flustered, "just wait. I came back here for a reason. I needed to ask you a question. I think it'll help us find Sam."

The agent was buying time, and Dean could see as much. "What is it?" Dean asked, despite himself.

Reid licked his lips nervously. "The florist's shop. We know that Ricky was set up there because that's where Glenn died, but we couldn't find any information on why Glenn was at an abandoned store when he was killed. It was suspected that it might have been a popular hangout for drug users, but Glenn's autopsy showed he was clean. Did Sam say anything about why Glenn was there?"

Dean shook his head, then stopped, remembering something Sam had mentioned when he was trying to make a case for stopping at the old storefront. "Sam thought maybe he was supposed to be meeting Ricky there that night. Don't know why that went to hell, but obviously Ricky didn't show."

Reid's brow narrowed. "Why would he need to meet his brother there?"

"CPS had picked up Ricky, put him with a temporary foster home, so they had to meet up. Not for the first time, I would guess…I would love to stay and chat, but we really don't have time for this."

"I know about the time in foster care, but why the shop- ?"

Dean saw it, the way his breath clouded in front of him, and was ready to cut the conversation short, when there was a flicker of something just behind Reid, the shape of a man, just in the shadows to the agent's side. Dean's eyes widened in warning, but before the shout could leave his mouth, the figure flickered again, appearing at Reid's shoulder with a taunting grin.

* * *

_Reid._

_Reid._

"Reid!"

The world snapped back into place all at once, leaving Reid grimacing at the suddenly loudness of the voice. The lights were still dimmed, but he felt disoriented, and it took him a moment to realize the sensation was due to him leaning his body against the wall as he moved. He couldn't recall actually standing back up, but he'd made it almost down the hallway before he was aware of what he was doing.

"Dean," he said. He instantly hated the volume of his own voice, reaching up to cup the side of his head. His fingers came away slick.

"Winchester did this to you?"

Reid blinked, realizing the question was coming from his side. Morgan had a hand on his shoulder, holding him in place.

"What?" Reid asked, then processed what Morgan had said. "No...Dean was in front. Someone behind me pushed me into a wall. How did someone get behind me?"

"Shit," Morgan breathed. "Wait here for help," he snapped, then took off.

Reid watched him run ahead, toward the end of the corridor, but he knew, with a sinking feeling, that he wouldn't find Dean at the end of it. The spinning in his head was coming to a calm, so Reid pushed off the wall, following after Morgan at a clumsy run. Another turn, another hall, Reid found Morgan at an exiting door, standing on a sidewalk along the fenced drive for the department's private lot. The world outside was still, and Reid had forgotten that the day had passed, that it would be just as dark outside as it was inside. He came to a stop beside the other agent, ignoring the way Morgan spun in place, looking for any sign of movement around the scattering of vehicles in the small lot.

"Where the hell did he go?" Morgan breathed, but he didn't mention Reid's presence, outside instead of inside. "The fence is still locked."

"They took him," Reid answered, patting at the wound on his head again. "And Dean wanted to get taken, so he could find Sam."

Morgan raised his brow, and Reid realized his mistake. He'd said "They." He wasn't even sure why it had slipped out, since it had only taken one person to toss him aside.

"I think you were right about a partner. One of them must have gotten inside," Reid explained, "and the other distracted the department up front."

Morgan looked like he'd bitten into a lemon. "God damn it… Someone shot at a deputy's vehicle while it was driving past. There was a crash. The guy's in rough shape. Everyone is trying to get him out…It worked. Their plan worked. We need to tell Hotch what just happened."

Reid spotted the SUV rental in the lot and took off toward it. "We'll call him from the road," he assured, over his shoulder. "You have the key?"

Morgan nodded, following, but he hesitated at the door. "You want to tell me where we're going?"

Reid didn't answer, pulling his cell phone free and dialing. "Garcia! Yes, I know about the - No, I'm not in the building, technically. Just, wait, I don't have time to explain. I need you to stop what you're doing and get me an address." He lowered the phone at Morgan's sharp glance. "If I'm right, I know where Sam might be. And where they're taking Dean."

Morgan hopped into the driver's seat. "I'll call Hotch."

* * *

Dean sucked in a deep breath, immediately regretting it when his throat filled with dust. He coughed up the mess, trying and failing to lift his cheek up off the filthy wooden floor. When he caught his breath, he managed to roll over on his side, but the effort wasn't without consequence. He felt like every muscle in his body had taken a beating, and he wasn't sure if that was entirely inaccurate. When he looked down at his hands, they were bleeding, deep gouges in his palms, but Dean couldn't remember what had caused them.

With a groan, he pushed himself up onto his knees, the floor beneath him squeaking at the movement. After he'd blinked the blurriness from his eyes, he realized the slope of the beams around him were familiar. He was in an attic, unfinished, the project long abandoned if the dust was any account. The floor was barely more than a patchwork of osb board, laid down over half the space, the other half open wires and layers of insulation peeking out between the beams. A single bulb and its pull-string hung above him.

"You're stubborn."

The voice startled him, but Dean tried to hide it by straightening. He glared out at the open space until the shape of an older teen took form. Glenn looked more alive under the yellow light, but Dean could still feel the way the heat was pulled from the air, the scent of ozone strong in his nostrils. Too strong. Dean reached up, touching the tip of his nose. Instead of blood, a green goo was smeared across his fingertips. _Ectoplasm._ His eyes widened. He realized suddenly why his whole body was aching.

"You son of a bitch," Dean huffed. "You rode me out of the sheriff's station. Remind me to re-kill your ass."

Glenn cocked his head slightly, and then sat down, legs crossed in front of Dean. "I couldn't hold on for very long. I guess I shouldn't have tried so soon, but it was hard to move you without Ricky's help. You threw me off… My ring at least. Ricky was upset 'bout that." He smiled slowly. "But I'm not worried. It's a good thing, you being strong. Or, _thinking_ you're strong. Once you break, you'll be perfect. So will Sam. Two perfect brothers with your whole lives in front of you. Like it should be."

Dean could feel the anger under his skin, knew that the look he was shooting the ghost was anything but kind. "You obviously don't know who the hell you're dealing with, Casper, if you think you can break either of us."

Glenn shrugged. "I don't need to know you. You're not going to be you for much longer."

"So, what's your game here?" Dean snapped. "You possess people so they can go around doing your killing for you?"

Glenn's brow furrowed in confusion. "Killing? It's not about killing. It's satisfying, sure, but that's just cause and effect. See, we been trying this out a long time, me practicing, Ricky learning… It hasn't worked out too well, most of our attempts, but I think we'll get it right with you."

The ghost flickered, his form closer a split second later. His arms were outstretched, fingers clasping the sides of Dean's head before the hunter could push himself away. "But that comes later. First, the fun part. Let's try to make it quick."

* * *

He'd been hit from behind.

That was the single thought that circled Reid's mind. He tried to concentrate on the drive there, on Garcia over the phone, on Morgan's spitfire explanation of what had just happened at the sheriff's department, but his focus was lost every time to that one haunting thought:

_There wasn't anyone behind me._

Dean had been in front, his eyes wide in realization right before it had happened, and Reid had felt it, a rush of cold air in the already chilly corridor, but there was no window behind him, no open doorway or shadowy corner for his attacker to hide in… The electrical outage had lasted only a second before the back-up lights switched on, and even then, they were weak, as if their power was being drained away. Still, it wasn't enough time for someone to go past a crowd of officers, through the front of the building and make their way to the holding corridor.

There hadn't been anyone back there.

Reid felt nauseous and wondered if he should mention his possible concussion. At least bleeding on the brain would explain the complete lack of logic to his thoughts right now, but he kept his mouth shut, holding the compression pad Morgan had yanked from the first aid kit in the back to his head wound.

"There!" Reid snapped, gesturing out at a house at the end of the block before the GPS could sound its own warning. "Stop, stop! That's the address."

Morgan hit the brakes hard, but Reid was already scrambling for his seatbelt, hopping out the side door, his make-shift bandage left behind. Morgan was at his side in a split second, reaching out for Reid's arm, but he missed as Reid dodged him and ran up the sidewalk toward the house. Reid slid to a stop at the quaint gate at the front yard's cobblestone walkway. From the outside, the Victorian home looked dark, its curtained windows black, but he could see a glimmer of sickly yellow glowing from the small round vent at the apex of the roof. Someone was in the attic.

"Reid!" Morgan whispered, hesitating beside his teammate. Reid noticed the way the man held back a few feet, using the sprawling walnut tree in the front yard as cover. Morgan gestured for Reid to take a step toward him, out of clear view of the house, but Reid shook his head.

"We don't have time," Reid mouthed back.

Morgan grimaced at the reply. "The rest of the team is only a minute behind us, man. If this is the place, there's at least one armed suspect inside with hostages. We need to do this right, Reid."

Reid blinked, taking a step back toward Morgan, but he bent down instead of joining him at the tree. He'd noticed that the decorative fence around the yard, barely high enough to reach his hip, was probably as old as the house and in disarray. And black painted iron.

One of the narrow balusters hung loose from the top rail, the roots of the tree growing around its base and pushing it loose. Reid grabbed hold of it, and heard the snap of the welded end popping free. He gripped the iron rod in one hand, giving Morgan a wide-eyed looked that he knew the other man couldn't read.

Because Morgan didn't realize the importance of what Reid had told him after the attack. There hadn't been another living soul behind him. Reid was sure of it. But there had been a partner.

Which meant…

Reid wasn't even sure he could process what that meant.

"We can't wait," Reid pleaded, but he couldn't say why, couldn't give a reason for his instinct. But he knew it was there, and following his gut was something his team had taught him long ago. "I'm going in."

Morgan blinked at him, confused. "What the hell are you going to do with a metal rod?"

Reid didn't clarify that it was an iron rod, because he knew how crazy it would sound if he answered honestly. If he said that he'd heard Sam and Dean mention iron when they'd packed their weapons bags at the cabin. If he admitted that he'd spent any of his limited time since he'd been freed, time he was supposed to use on the case, looking up other ways to deal with spirits on the internet, just so he'd have something to talk to Dean about during their next interview. If he so much as hinted at the idea that there wasn't another living person in the hallway behind him when Dean was taken.

"I'm going in," Reid repeated, instead, and took off toward the front door.

* * *

His shoulders ached, but Sam leaned forward slightly, his head hung low and his breathing even. It was more difficult than he expected, keeping still, especially after he'd tucked his feet behind him, his toes scraping the basement wall. The position was awkward, his feet arched, the deep wounds between his toes screaming as they were forced open. Keeping himself calm, listening carefully, he could hear the pitter-patter of blood droplets pooling beneath him.

Eyes squinted, he watched through sweat-drenched hair, not the staircase, where he could hear a door opening high above, but the space in front of him. The lonely table and its lonely chair, the shadows of forgotten items stored just out of the reach of the light hanging above. He'd realized some time back that one of those shadows belonged to his boots, sitting upright against the far wall, which led him to believe he recognized the next as well.

The oblong lump had to be his duffle bag. He was certain his shotgun had been left behind at the shop, but he could almost remember the half-empty bag being ripped away from him in the van. His captors had obviously decided it was worth keeping, even if they likely didn't know the significance of the items inside.

The door squeaked above, each step down the staircase an echo of the first. When Ricky reached the bottom, he stopped, and Sam resisted the urge to twitch, to raise his gaze and look up at the man.

After a long moment, Ricky seemed to determine his victim wasn't worthy of taunting, and Sam tried not to smile ruefully as the man passed him by, plopping down at the table as if he were exhausted. Sam could see him clearly now that he was in his line of sight.

Ricky dropped something heavy onto the table top. A gun, and Sam almost gave himself away at the realization. He swallowed hard, his fingers tightening into tighter fists as he held to the brackets on the walls, bracing himself. Ricky was too preoccupied to notice, the man struggling to fit a thin chain over his head.

Sam had seen what was on the end, when Ricky was busy filming the… show. Sam grimaced at the memory, focusing on what had been on the end of that chain. A ring, gaudy and detailed. A class ring. Ricky had fiddled with it while his other hand had held the camcorder steady. When they'd finished recording, the man had slipped it off his neck, palming it before he and his brother left to deliver the message.

"I used to pretend to be asleep too," Ricky mused.

Sam grimaced but straightened his back against the wall, giving his shoulders a break from the ruse. "Where did you go?" he asked, even though he was sure he knew the answer. "You were gone a long time."

"When I was afraid," Ricky continued, as if he didn't hear the question. "When I thought it would keep 'em from hurting me, I'd play possum."

Sam didn't care. He held the comment down, let the heat behind his gaze fizzle out some, and forced himself to pay attention to the man and not the bag against the wall. He wondered if he was imagining it, the way it was harder to keep his anger in check these days, harder to bury rage once it crawled its way to the surface.

"Who?" Sam asked, biting out the word. "Did your brother hurt you?"

Ricky shot him a sharp look. "Never," he snapped. He took a breath, as if to calm himself, and patted his chest, where the ring lay. "Glenn would never hurt me. He's the only one. The only person who didn't. Glenn protected me. He's never stopped protecting me."

Sam scoffed. "How is killing innocent people a way of protecting you?"

"It ain't about the killing!" Ricky slapped his hand against the table, the gun rattling at the quake. "This is about saving what's really sacred in this world … Why? Does your brother hurt you?"

Sam blinked, thrown by the question. He felt the heat reach his cheeks, and he was ashamed at his own hesitation. The truth was, Dean _had_ hurt him, had said and done things that cut deep, but Sam knew he'd dished out barbs that were just as sharp. They hurt each other, more than Sam would ever want to admit. But at the end of the day, all of that faded away, because it wasn't the kind of hurt Ricky had known in his life, not the kind that left permanent scars.

Frustrated at the empathy circling his thoughts, Sam shook his head.

"Dean practically raised me," he answered, finally. "I know what it's like, having a brother who will do anything to protect you." Sam met the man's eye. "I think he'd kill for me, too." _I know it._ "I think he'd even die for me." _I wish I didn't know it._ "Is that what happened with Glenn?"

Ricky watched him carefully, as if looking for a lie. Then he smiled, gently. There was something manic, something threatening in the expression, but Sam was sure the man meant it as a comfort.

"You're perfect," Ricky finally said, sounding tired. "You're perfect for me. It's really going to work this time."

Sam's brow wrinkled in frustration. "What is?"

"You can live." Ricky nodded, to himself, to Sam, but it didn't seem reassuring. "We can all live. All you have to do is let go. Just let us be, and we can keep going, perfect brothers. Living out our lives, like we should: _together._ None of us will ever need to be separated again."

"I don't…" Sam trailed off, the man's words sinking in. "Together," he said, swallowing again. He shook his head. "You're not picking out siblings to punish them. You want to become them. You think your brother can, what, possess someone? That you can get him back? How exactly are you planning to join him?" Sam's mouth snapped close. He'd seen it earlier, the signs, and he'd ignored them. "You're dying. That's why you're in such a hurry."

Ricky tilted his head, closing his eyes a moment, as if the words had brought some old pain to surface. "And when I'm dead, Glenn's gonna teach me all he's learned, and we're going to have you all lined up and ready for me. It was easy for him, you know, jumping into someone. He didn't know it would hurt me, the first time he tried it out, when we were looking for our sister."

_When you killed your sister. Together,_ Sam silently corrected. He blinked up at Ricky, trying to not look down, at the man's chest, at the ring catching the light. He had an idea of why Ricky wasn't wearing it on his finger.

"But it only lasts a little while before they push him back out again. Take control back. It's taken Glenn a while to figure out the staying part," Ricky continued.

A sound cut him off, a muffled cry, stifled by the floors above. Sam glanced up at the ceiling, as if he could see right through the floor. He knew, as irrational as it might sound, that he knew that cry.

"Damn it, Dean," he breathed.

His heart thundered against this chest, the constant rattle blurring his vision, but the other man didn't seem to notice the fury directed his way.

Ricky shrugged off the sound. "Guess Glenn's getting right to it then. Hope your brother cares for you as much as you think or it's gonna be a long night for him."

"You don't know Dean," Sam whispered.

"Glenn thought he had it a few times, with the other ones," Ricky mused, leaning back in his chair, head turned as if to hear the commotion from upstairs better. Another cry sounded, one shorter, sharper. Cut off. "Some of them, they broke, just right, let him take over fully. But it took too long to teach 'em their lessons. Too long to show 'em why they needed to let us be in control. Guess we were a bit too rough on them, but they just didn't care about each other, not the way siblings should. By the time they were hurting enough to realize what they meant to one another, they were 'bout done for. One or the other would always die before we got a chance to use 'em. And, Hell, what good is just one half of a pair?"

Sam wanted to vomit. "So you killed the spare."

"So they could stay together. A mercy, really."

Sam glared up at him. "Maybe someone will show you the same."

Ricky didn't answer, didn't even look his way, his mouth open slightly in child-like wonder as he listened to the sounds above. Sam opened his fists, letting the ends of the frayed ropes slip from his fingers and hang from the sharp, useful edges of the shelf brackets. His hands dropped from his ruined restraints as he pushed himself up off the floor, every inch of his slashed feet screaming at the movement.

Sam let out a pained breath through his teeth, but steadied himself, a warning at the tip of his tongue. "You probably shouldn't have stayed gone so long, Ricky."


	14. And Light it Up Forever

_Someone stop me._

Reid heard the words, his own, circling in his head. And a part of him wanted them to be spoken aloud. Wanted Morgan to catch up in time to grab him and push him away from the house. Wanted to find the front door to be locked, a family to be inside, enjoying an evening at home and completely confused by the bleeding mess of an FBI agent on the porch.

But he twisted the brass door knob, and it turned, a wide, darkened foyer meeting him at the entrance of the too quiet house.

He was right. He knew he was right about this being the place, but he also knew he should shout out, announce his presence. In fact, he shouldn't have taken that first step inside at all. Already, he was re-writing the moment in his head, determining what he'd put in his report, that he had heard a shout. That there was real cause for him to enter, real cause beyond people who couldn't exist throwing him into a wall or cold spots or...

Then, as if someone were reading his mind, a scream sounded through the house, a thick, guttural cry, preceded at once by a loud thud from high above. _A body falling,_ Reid thought, irrationally, and swallowed hard.

Footsteps sounded up the porch, Morgan pleading something at a whisper when he reached the open front door's threshold, but Reid ignored him, running up the foyer stairs to the second floor, a part of him still hoping his teammate was right behind him.

A quote circled his thoughts, Joseph Conrad. "The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary. Men alone are quite capable of every wickedness." He could hear himself saying the words, knew he had, in the past, and for the first time, he considered that he might not be able to say them again, not without thinking of this moment.

Maybe they existed, other forms of wickedness, ones lying in wait, just beyond the shadows. Or maybe, Reid had to consider, he was simply wrong about what he had and hadn't seen. He resisted the urge to reach up, touch the wound at his head again, assuring himself there was a reason he was dizzy and his thoughts were scrambled. Maybe the quote was correct, and he was simply traumatized.

"That's what the gun's for," he answered himself, at a whisper, and barely resisted the urge to laugh at the situation. Now wasn't the time for hysterics.

He gripped the iron rod in his hand a bit tighter, trying to focus, and found himself down a new hallway, at the end of which was a narrow, twisting staircase, too tight to lead to a proper third level. A dim light from above brightened the steps - the entry above was propped open. But there wasn't another scream to guide his way, and he felt suddenly unsure of himself.

He glanced over his shoulder, hoping to see Morgan, but found the hallway was empty, no sign that his teammate had followed him inside. No back-up then. He let out a shaky breath and leveled himself at the steps. They were almost smaller than his long shoes, barely more than rungs off a wooden ladder. The first step squealed at the weight of his foot, announcing his presence to whoever was waiting above.

He watched the small opening and cautiously took another step. Another squeal. Then he saw it in the yellow light, the hint of a shadow moving against the high cross beams above. Someone was in the attic, watching, waiting. He scrambled for his other weapon, lining the handgun up against the metal rod as he raised them both and glanced over the edge of the ceiling door, looking into the attic space.

Dean was sprawled out on the floor below the attic's meager light, but his arm was raised, fingers clinging to his short hair as if he were cupping his head in pain. Reid wanted to shout out to him, but the name died on his lips when he remembered the movement he'd spotted. If Dean was the one on the floor, then it hadn't been him walking past the light. He turned sharply, expecting to find someone lurking in the sloping corners of the attic, but there was only a clutter of boxes in one corner, building supplies haphazardly strewn about on the other side from some abandoned attempts to turn the space into something livable. Reid wondered when the last time the actual owners of the home had been up here, and if they were still alive to ever finish the project.

Reid took a few more steps, finally finding solid footing on the bare chip-wood flooring. He swallowed hard, then tried again, the chill in the stale, open space leaving his voice quaking slightly.

"Dean?"

Dean flinched at the sound of his name, jerking up onto one elbow. Reid could see the exhaustion on his pallid features, hear the shallowness of his breaths, and wondered what had happened in the short time it had taken them to get to the house. He opened his mouth to ask, then hesitated when he saw the dark look in Dean's eyes, the man's gaze directed at Reid's side.

The chill Reid had felt was suddenly not so figurative, but solid, like an ice cube dropped down the back of his shirt. His knuckles whitened on his weapons, but he hesitated to turn.

"He's got nothing to do with this, asshole," Dean growled.

Reid let out a breath through his teeth, bracing himself as he slowly shifted to glance over his shoulder.

_There wasn't anyone behind me._

An echo of a thought, a justification that he hadn't been able to voice to Morgan for a second time, ran through his head. Only it wasn't exactly true. Just because someone was dead, didn't mean they weren't there.

Reid knew the man at his side. A teenage boy, really, with lanky features that never quite filled out, and skin so pale, it was practically transparent. Reid knew, would have known even if he hadn't had a chance to look at the meager file on the Trapp brothers, that this was Glenn Trapp, deceased but somehow standing with a scowl on his petulant face. The expression was aimed at Dean, but the words that left the ghost's mouth seemed to be for Reid.

"I don't remember inviting you over."

_Ghost,_ Reid thought, and wasn't sure if he wanted to shout or collapse or run, because he'd wanted to be proven wrong about what had happened in the hallway almost more than he'd wanted to be proven right. He wanted to feel foolish. Wanted someone to be surprised by his lack of logic. Wanted to be teased for ever letting a delusional criminal like one of the Winchesters get to him.

And yet.

"You're dead," Reid said. "You're Glenn Trapp."

For once in his life, he felt his mind go blank, not a reasonable response left in his head.

"We're kind of in the middle of something right now," Glenn said, with fake politeness, "but if you'd like to join us, come on in. I'm sure it'll be a scream."

Reid felt the shove, cold fingers at his shoulder, even though the ghost had only moved his head, turning a hard stare on the agent. One foot caught the edge of the attic opening, and Reid stumbled, landing hard on his arms and feeling the scrape of the coarse wood tear through one sleeve. His fingers opened instinctively, the gun clattering to the floor, but he regained his hold on the rod against his sweaty palm. He winced, but recovered quickly, rolling onto his back with his weapon raised. On instinct, he swung out, catching Glenn through the chest with the iron.

The metal passed right through, the man's image flickering as he scowled and disappeared.

Reid shuffled to his feet quickly, almost stumbling further into the attic, toward Dean, but he kept the metal rod raised high and at the ready.

"Spencer, get the hell out of here!" Dean snapped.

Reid wasn't sure if he wanted to argue, if he should reach back and grab the man's hand to help him or dash to the attic door. He didn't have a chance to decide. A cold hand grabbed the back of his neck, squeezing hard enough to silence the cry trapped in his throat. Reid swung his arm back wildly, hoping the rod would hit its mark, and the ghost released him with a hard shove.

Whatever relief Reid felt was short-lived as he skid across the flooring, one shoe finding something soft and sinking under its sole. It took him a split second to realize he'd stepped off the solid floor and into the billows of insulation, and he shuffled forward at the sudden descent, trying to find his footing. A crack sounded beneath him, and before he could cry out, the slats at his feet crumbled, swallowing him whole.

* * *

Morgan had known this sort of stillness before, in other dark, strange places. He couldn't remember exactly the last time he'd encountered such a heavy silence, but it was with him now, embracing him like an old friend. And threatening to suffocate him. He didn't want to call it fear, because there was nothing to be afraid of. He was the one holding the gun, ready for the villain of the piece to make himself known.

He sucked a breath in through his teeth, annoyed at the slight whistle it left in the air, and felt a tremor in his arm that shouldn't have existed. Stilling his hand, he took another step forward, deeper into the foyer, closer to the staircase.

The moonlight from the open door behind him lit his path, but he didn't see any sign of life ahead of him. Even though he was sure, seconds ago, when he was still standing on the porch just outside the front door, that Reid had headed toward the staircase.

He opened his mouth slightly, ready to shout out for Reid, but he knew what he'd be doing if he did. If Reid was right, if Trapp was here, then calling out would give his position away, and maybe Reid's as well. Morgan grimaced at his lack of options and used his free hand to fish his phone back out, but a quick glance down showed him he didn't have a signal inside the house.

From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a reflection of headlights dancing through a nearby window, probably the back-up they'd called in, the rest of the team headed their way. Instinctively, he took a step back, and felt a cool rush of air, a breeze from the door. A split second too late, he realized it was from the front door sweeping shut.

Morgan swung around, gun trained in front of him, but even without the extra light, he could see that he was still alone in the foyer. He reached out, trying the door knob and found it locked. His brow wrinkled in surprise and he fiddled with the dead bolt but it wouldn't budge.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered.

Someone had locked him in. They must have circled from the back of the house somehow, jammed something in the door frame. Maybe Reid had been right about there being another unsub, a team working together to trap their prey.

A cold sweat settled on his forehead as he turned his attention back to the rest of the house. Reid wasn't the stealthiest of people; Morgan was certain he should have heard some sign of him by now. Something was wrong.

A grunt sounded and Morgan froze a split second, trying to determine its location. He ran right of the stairs, hearing another harsh thud, and a crack, the sound of something breaking. It was muffled, too far away.

From the back yard, maybe, he thought, before realizing his feet had brought him to another conclusion. He'd moved past an old galley kitchen and found himself at a narrow doorway, the short plank door ajar. It could have been a towel closet or a pantry, for all he knew, but that heavy stillness settled over him, dread whispering its answer in his ear. A basement.

The noise had come from the basement.

* * *

"You probably shouldn't have stayed gone so long, Ricky."

It was a constant companion, the anger, and it left him trembling now. When people met him, he could show them the person he wanted to be, calm, gentle, soothing. He could put on a friendly face better than Dean had ever managed, but Sam wondered if it hadn't always been there, the anger just beneath the surface, part of the parting gift the demon had left behind that night in his nursery.

It could be used, that's what Ruby had been trying to show him, but _it shouldn't be_ , a voice deep inside constantly warned.

Sam hated the person in front of him. Hated what the man had done. Hated what had turned Ricky into a killer. But he couldn't let that anger loose, not on this guy, not on a human, even if he was a despicable excuse for one. There were other ways to deal with this sort of monster.

Sam saw it, the moment Ricky processed the statement, the moment he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. And Sam lunged forward before the man could reach out for the gun on the table.

The table legs snapped on impact, collapsing as Sam tumbled into it as he reached for Ricky, fingers clawing into the other man, assuring that they were going to hit the floor together. Sam winced out at the blow to his shoulder, but the cry of pain came from Ricky as Sam pinned one of the man's arms beneath his body. Sam rolled over, slamming a fist into the guy's face before he could sit up. Blood oozed down Ricky's nose, but he was still blinking wildly, shocked by the sudden change in their positions.

Sam took advantage of the moment, reaching for the lump of metal around the man's neck and yanking it free with a snap. He pushed up off of Ricky, dizzy from the movement, vertigo clawing at his senses. Sam almost collapsed back down but stayed on his knees, growling in frustration at the stark reminder of the injuries he'd sustained. Of the _show_ the Trapp brothers had put on.

He felt more than he saw the other man scrambling behind him, trying to get to the other side of the table.

_The gun,_ Sam remembered, and instinctively kicked out one leg, sending Ricky sprawling back toward the other wall. The man hit hard and stayed down.

Sam spun around, trying to find where the weapon landed when the table collapsed, but his eyes found his bag instead, propped next to his boots, just a few feet away. He half-crawled there, not trusting his damaged feet, and pulled it to him, tearing the zipper in his haste to get inside. It was sitting on top, untouched, a canister of salt, a small tin of lighter fluid beneath. The Trapps probably hadn't even realized their purpose, when they'd dug through the bag. Sam scoffed at the thought. For all the time the bastards had spent looking for victims, they hadn't bothered to find out what their own weaknesses were… Leave it to the dead to think themselves invincible.

Sam dropped the prize clasped in his other hand and the ring landed on the heap of its own broken chain, a gaudy, cheap looking thing, ornamented with symbols and initials on either side of its smooth, oval gemstone. It was a class ring.

They had wondered how the spirit of Glenn Trapp had traveled so easily, and Sam was sure the answer was right in front of him, a ring passed down from a dead brother to a living brother. Sam wondered which one of them slipped it onto their victims' fingers before Glenn played house in their bodies.

The smell of the fuel burned at his nostrils before Sam had even realized that he'd already buried the ring in a small pillar of salt, a stream of lighter fluid raining down on it. He dug back into the bag for his spare lighter, and found it with a grimace. His thumb scraped against the wheel.

He hoped to god he was right about the ring.

"FBI, drop the weapon!"

Sam froze, eyes wide when he realized there was another man at the top of the basement stairs, his feet spread wide as he braced himself on the top two steps, a handgun trained on the floor below. On him. Sam opened his mouth, wanting to explain, wanting to tell the stony-faced agent that he only had seconds to act. That there was another danger in the house. That it had his _brother._

"I can't," Sam said instead, turning his focus back to the tiny blue flame burning the tip of his finger.

He opened his hand, and a shot rang out.

* * *

Dean watched the fear on the young agent's face shift to blind panic as he stumbled. A warning died on the tip of his tongue as Reid dropped, his feet disappearing out from under him as a piece of the ceiling below collapsed. A cloud of dust rose in the air, but Dean could see the other man still, and his heart retreated back into his chest. Reid was folded forward, trapped at the waist, his arms outstretched to the two closest beams, fingers clasping desperately to them to keep himself from slipping down any further. The thin planks around him groaned at the weight, threatening to snap and widen the hole.

"Hold on, Spencer!"

Dean scrambled to his feet, crossing the short distance between them in a second's span. He took a knee at the edge of the flooring, bracing himself across one of the supports, his arm outstretched. Reid gave him a doubtful look, but released his grip, holding one hand out for Dean.

Their fingers never reached.

Dean felt the ghost's presence, an icy body flush against his back, and tried to shift his weight, roll out of Glenn's grasp, even if it meant falling through the unfinished flooring himself. But it was too late. Hands pressed flat against Dean's head, pushing at his temples, the pressure in his skull unbearable.

His mouth opened to let out a scream, but it came out a strangled protest instead, and it took Dean a moment to realize it was Reid's cry he was hearing, not his own. It sounded too distant, and Dean couldn't quite open his eyes to see if the other man was further away than he had been a second earlier. Glenn's voice, however, was uncomfortably close.

"I'm not going to need the ring for this, am I?" Glenn said. "It's becoming a bit of a crutch, if I'm honest. Makes things almost too easy, and to be frank, I don't like the way my baby brother thinks it keeps me in check."

Dean could feel the ghost's icy fingers slipping under his scalp, straight into his skull, and his whole body tensed at the intrusion. He latched on to the pain, trying to bury it down, trying to ignore the whispered promise of relief if he just let go of it entirely.

"Quit fighting me, Dean."

Glenn's voice wasn't deep. It was soft, pleading. It reminded Dean of a kid. It made him think of Sam as a teenager, begging Dean to let him go out with his would-be friends.

"There we go…" Glenn coaxed, the words loud, like an echo bouncing off bone walls. "Just let me help. Think about it, Dean."

" _Dean! You need to listen to me."_

There was another voice, somewhere, far away.

"You let me take over, and we'll handle the law enforcement together," Glenn offered. "We'll get them out of the way, get out of this place, go where they can't find us anymore."

" _You're in control, Dean, and I know you. You wouldn't hurt us."_

Glenn's fingers curled. "Wouldn't that be good, just us and our brothers, just family… We need to protect our family, don't we?"

" _You protect people, Dean. You protected me and Penelope, remember? You save people."_

"It's the only way," Glenn said, almost sadly. "It's the only way to protect our little brothers. That's our job. We can save them."

" _We can save Sam."_

The gunshot sounded. Distant but distinct enough for Dean to recognize it. He pushed at the pain, pushed at Glenn, screaming inside his mind in a blind rage.

A kick to the lungs, that's what it felt like, the air rushing out like it had been exorcised from his rib cage, and Dean found himself gasping to get it back. He rolled onto his back, a delay between the movement and the realization that he was on the floor again, moved to his old spot beneath the yellow light bulb. Something heavy was in his hand, cool and smooth, and he lifted it lazily: the gun Reid had brought with him into the attic.

_Did I use it?_ A chill ran over Dean at the thought when he remembered hearing a bang. _Oh, God, Spencer..._

"Guess you're not ready yet," the ghost sneered. "Don't worry, you will be when we finish with Sam." Glenn hovered over him, rage and confusion twisting his face into something ugly. His expression shifted, as if frozen by some stray thought. Then his eyes widened in panic. "Ricky?" he whispered. His bottom lip trembled in worry. "Ricky, help me! Ricky, I can't hold on!"

The ghost screamed his brother's name as the skin blackened around his face, decay overtaking every inch of his form as he faded into the shadows of the attic.

Dean laid still a moment longer, his heart hammering his chest hard enough to leave him quaking. He waited for the ghost to return, but when it didn't, he rolled up onto his side with a groan, letting the gun clatter to the floor. He was almost afraid to look, but when he did, Reid was staring at him, mouth agape, fingers white knuckled from holding onto the wooden beams. And decidedly not shot.

Dean scrambled over to him, grabbing his wrist just as the younger man slipped a few inches down into the hole. With a pained groan, Dean pulled Reid back up another foot, until the man was able to heave himself onto the chip board flooring.

Reid pushed himself up onto his elbow, gently raking away the disheveled hair sticking to his head wound so he could meet Dean's eye. "What just happened?"

Dean stared down at him with a shake of his head. He wasn't sure, but he answered anyway.

"Sam."

* * *

The flames danced over the ring, bright orange over the salt beneath. Sam doubted it would burn hot enough to destroy it beyond repair, but he'd seen enough cursed and haunted items go up to know that the purification, the disfiguring, the ritual itself was usually enough to lift a spirit's hold. At least, he hoped so.

He let out a shaky breath, and dared to look away from the fire, down at himself, still kneeling on the cement floor. It took him another moment to realize the FBI agent's heavy footsteps had moved right past him. Sam glanced over his shoulder, lips parted as he watched the agent kneel over Ricky Trapp's immobile form.

The agent brushed a hand over Ricky's body, pulling free the gun dangling loose from his fingertips and tucking it safely away. It was, Sam realized, the gun Ricky had apparently found while Sam had been setting the ring on fire. The gun he had probably been aiming at Sam's back, if the fed had felt it necessary to shoot.

The agent looked up, as if he felt Sam's eyes on him and pointed a threatening finger in his direction.

"Sam Winchester," he snapped, "you do not move an inch, do you hear me?"

Sam nodded mutely, wanting to mention that he doubted he had the strength to move two inches. He kept his mouth shut, instead, staring at Ricky. Blood seeped out of the man's chest, but Sam had seen enough bullet wounds to know it wasn't necessarily fatal, depending on the angle. But Ricky was sick, already weak, and Sam wondered if he'd even regain consciousness. A part of Sam hoped he wouldn't.

The agent jerked up all of a sudden, back rigid and gun in hand. Sam heard it too, the banging from upstairs. It sounded like the house was falling in on itself. A strangled cry for help sounded from somewhere high above, and Sam tensed.

"Dean," he muttered.

A gunshot rang out, so short and muted by walls that it almost sounded harmless, but Sam knew better. He felt a chill run through him. Had burning the ring even helped? Was Glenn still up there? Or was it the cops flooding in, finding Dean, finding a reason to _shoot_ Dean.

"Reid…" the fed whispered.

Sam was so caught up in listening, that he barely noticed that the FBI agent had grabbed his wrist, cuffing him low to the bottom rail of the staircase. He expected a threat from the other man, but when he looked, the fed's expression was one of concern, his dark eyes trained on the ceiling above.

The agent's mouth tightened, like he was holding back something he wanted to say to Sam, or maybe just to himself, but he let it out with a gruff sigh, and took to the stairs, running up them two at a time. Sam blinked after him, surprised to find himself alone. He had a feeling this wasn't exactly FBI protocol, but whatever was happening on the floors above had spurred the fed into action.

Sam tugged at the cuff around his wrist, testing the give of the rail, then looked over his shoulder. Ricky was still down, unmoving, the flames from the ring retreating without the fuel to keep it burning. There was a trail of his own bloody footprints crossing the room to the empty shelf brackets. Sam's back had been to the wall, and he hadn't seen what was above, flush against the ceiling and blanketed by a layer of cobwebs. It was a strip of white, fogged glass from a narrow vent window.

He gave the wooden stair rail a rueful look and went to work.


	15. Chapter 15: We See a Darkness

The world spun, or Morgan figured, maybe it was all in his head. Too many thoughts that didn't quite fit, tumbling around before he even had a chance to grasp on to one. All he knew for certain was that he'd left Reid somewhere upstairs. With Dean Winchester. With a possible second unsub. And that he'd left Ricky Trapp bleeding in the basement with Sam Winchester. He didn't have time to question the move or think about protocol. It was too late.

He'd heard the sound above, a struggle, a gunshot: Reid.

And that was all that mattered right now.

He'd crossed the kitchen, found himself back into the front foyer. Morgan skidded to a stop, almost tripping over the pile of debris in front of the main staircase. Even in the dim light, he could make out chunks of rotted wood and crumbled insulation. He glanced up in confusion, and he could see a gaping black maul in the tall foyer's ceiling. A hole, punched out in the attic, and how he hadn't heard that happen, he wasn't sure.

"What the hell?" he asked.

Footsteps had him spinning toward the stairs with his weapon up, but he immediately recognized the shadowy figure hobbling toward the top step, and he lowered the gun.

"Morgan!" Reid called out, relief in his voice. He quickened down the steps, before Morgan could run up to meet him. "Morgan, I heard a gunshot. Trapp?"

Morgan nodded. "Downstairs. Wounded. Sam Winchester's still alive, too. Did you fire your weapon?" he asked, confused.

Reid nodded, touching the gun at his side gingerly. "A warning shot. I have Dean Winchester detained upstairs."

"You're kidding?"

Morgan took another quick step up, but Reid reached out to grab his arm, holding him in place. He shared a small, cautious smile with the man, and Morgan leaned in on instinct, wrapping his arms around his teammate in a fierce hug. It might not have been the most professional gesture for a federal agent, but Morgan thought it felt long overdue when Reid squeezed him back.

"Thought I'd almost lost you again," Morgan said. "Gotta put a bell on you or something."

Reid huffed a laugh against his shoulder but looked somber when he pulled away. His fingers tightened on Morgan's sleeve. Morgan shook his head, thrown by the anxious look on Reid's face. He met his eye, and Morgan wondered what it was his instincts were picking up on. It almost felt like Reid was keeping him put, keeping him from taking another step upstairs, but Morgan brushed off the thought. Shock. Reid was in shock, that's all this was.

"Just…" Reid opened and closed his mouth, as if unsure of what to say. "I need to talk to you. Something happened."

Morgan's brow furrowed in worry, but a sound behind him cut off any reply he had. The front door splintered at the frame, the slab swinging open hard enough to slam against the adjacent wall. He let out a breath of relief as he watched familiar faces file in, Hotch, followed by Rossi, a line of the sheriff's men close behind with their weapons drawn. Prentiss brought up the tail, a bright smile flashing in her eyes when they met his, even while her lips remained tight.

Morgan moved to meet them, and the tension on their faces lifted slightly when they noticed Morgan and Reid, both relatively unharmed.

"What happened?" Hotch greeted. "Took us a moment to get in. We thought the door was barricaded."

Morgan shook his head. "It was rigged to lock or something. We were stuck inside. Got two suspects in the basement, one upstairs. I had to put Trapp down, but he's breathing. Sam Winchester, too, and Dean Winchester's in the attic."

Agent Rossi and the sheriff were already rounding the staircase, toward the kitchen in search of the basement door before Morgan could even finish, and Prentiss moved off to the opposite hall, sweeping the first floor for any unknowns. Morgan glanced over his shoulder, realizing Reid hadn't added to the assessment.

"Did Trapp have a partner?" he asked.

Reid blinked at him. "I don't know," he answered after a beat.

Morgan noticed the strange, narrow look Hotch gave the younger agent, and he was glad he wasn't alone in recognizing the hesitation in Reid's answer.

"There's no one else here," Reid amended, and stepped aside as Hotch rushed past, toward the second floor hallway, a deputy at his heels.

Reid stared after him a minute.

"We need to talk about what we're putting in our report," Morgan said, his voice hushed. "Man, what happened after you came inside? I was right behind you and you just disappeared."

Reid made a face, like he'd tasted something sour, and Morgan was ready to call him on it when he heard Hotch coming back at a near run.

"Winchester's gone," Hotch said, an open pair of cuffs in one hand. Reid's cuffs, if Morgan had to guess.

Morgan groaned, trying hard not to punch the bannister against his side. "Please tell me you're joking, Hotch."

Hotch's glare said he didn't plan to ever do any such thing. "I called it in. The sheriff's men are circling the house and blocking off the neighborhood. He couldn't have gotten far. We think he went out onto the roof."

"Hotch!" Rossi came around the corner of the staircase, nearly breathless. "We got a problem."

Morgan already felt it in his bones. He'd known it, when he'd looked down at Sam Winchester, clicked the cuffs into place. Tortured victim or not, Morgan had known leaving Sam alone wasn't going to be a good choice.

"Winchester's not down there," Rossi said, his frown deep. "Took half the staircase with him getting loose, but he left Trapp breathing."

There was a whirlwind of activity as the EMTs arrived, the sheriff calling for a manhunt, Hotch spitting out orders, and Morgan took it all in as if he were on autopilot. He found himself hustling out the front door, onto the porch, staring across the darkened yards of the closest neighbors, watching the shadows for movement. But he didn't feel it in him, the drive, the anger that had pushed him after the Winchesters just hours earlier.

He didn't want to say what was on his mind. He didn't want to say that the Winchesters were already in the wind.

The porch planks squeaked as Reid stepped up behind him, settling at his side. The younger man winced at the bright flashing lights from the ambulance parked on the street.

"It's over," Reid said.

And it shouldn't have been. Because the Winchesters were still out there. And Morgan was more and more sure there was probably a second person working with Trapp. But there was something definitive in the way Reid said it, like he was certain he was right.

Morgan nodded once, despite himself. "Sure."

* * *

"I'm fine. I just need a moment to breathe. Hotch approved." Reid shifted the phone against his ear. "Plus air travel always gives me a migraine when I'm healing from a concussion. I can get a doctor's excuse if you'd like."

He smirked to himself at the statement, knowing that his friend would be displeased at the reminder that Reid had taken severe blows to the head multiple times over the years.

Morgan sighed, and Reid could almost picture the man's expression as he gave up on the discussion. Less than two days after Trapp's capture, the team was headed home to a heap of inquiries and painstaking reports. Well, the team minus Reid. He was glad he'd gotten Hotch to approve him taking a bus back, or his plan wouldn't have worked. Conveniently, the ticket he'd bought wasn't valid until tomorrow.

"Fine, boy wonder," Morgan finally relented. "Just promise me you'll stay safe. I don't want to go back to Alabama again for at least another decade."

"I'll be careful," Reid assured, killing the rental car's engine. The headlights stayed on a moment longer, shining out into the darkened woods. Past the brush, the treeline broke away to rolling land, neatly trimmed and dotted with low, silhouetted figures. Tombstones.

He couldn't help but remember Tobias Hankel, the hunting shed, the graveyard. There was a tingle in the fold of his arm, the phantom touch of a needle. Reid swallowed hard, trying to bite down the anxiety that came with that memory, and the urges.

"Promise," Reid added. He hoped Morgan couldn't hear the lie in his voice.

"Yeah, yeah," Morgan chided. "Just make sure you call Miss Garcia before you tuck yourself in tonight. She had a come apart when you weren't on the flight."

Reid muttered his farewell without much thought, his focus on the view outside the car window. He was already out, crossing into the brush before he'd ended the call. He hoped he wasn't too late.

The drive hadn't been a long one, but it had spanned from one end of the county to the other, and he'd set out right after leaving the hospital. He'd watched Ricky Trapp for most of the afternoon, expecting at any moment to feel a threatening chill in the air around him, but it never arrived. Trapp hadn't regained consciousness since his arrival, and though he was stable for the moment, his doctor wasn't confident he'd ever leave the hospital alive. The man had already been weak, and Morgan's bullet had only hastened the inevitable. Despite his excuse that the man might awaken, might be able to give them more information, Reid had really stayed on watch in expectation of another member of the Trapp family.

If the nurses had noticed the salt scattered around the room, they hadn't mentioned it. As foolish as it had made him feel to pour it, he'd been confident that he remembered the Winchesters doing the same at the cabin, and it comforted him to know he wouldn't feel icy fingers against his skin if he dozed off in his chair.

Mostly, though, Reid had spent those wasted hours trying to convince himself he didn't need to do exactly what he was currently doing.

He pushed aside a rather persistent bush and stumbled over the first in a line of flat granite markers. Resisting the urge to pull out his flashlight, he hesitated, letting his eyes readjust to the moonlight and listening for voices. He thought he heard something, a faint, muffled conversation, past the next slope.

When the flames rose, he saw their orange glow against the far grove of trees and followed it. He was almost transfixed by the faint light, but he found himself glancing over his shoulder, looking for any signs of life down the cemetery's main drive. He knew for a fact that local law enforcement wouldn't be out this way quite yet, their efforts having turned in a different direction. Which was why Reid had been certain that, if the Winchesters were going to show up to finish their job, tonight would be their chance.

"You know, for a smart guy, you do your share of stupid things."

Reid froze at the sound of the voice, turning slowly to find Dean Winchester leaning against a worn and weathered limestone obelisk. Sam joined him a second later, shaking his head when he realized whom his brother was talking to.

"You've got to be kidding me," Sam breathed, raising a brow at his brother.

The moonlight was bright enough for Reid to see the abashed look on Dean's face. "What? It's not like I invited the guy," he defended.

"You told me about salting and burning the body, remember?" Reid offered, as a welcome, and Sam snorted, like it was a confirmation of his suspicions. "When I researched Glenn Trapp's final resting place," Reid continued, before the brothers could interrupt, " I had a feeling you wouldn't be able to leave without completing your job. This is how you stop Glenn Trapp from returning, correct?"

"Yeah, well, still not a great reason to be wandering a graveyard at night." Dean tilted his head, gesturing for Reid to follow them.

Reid watched them carefully, the way they turned their backs to him, letting him trail behind. To an outsider, it might have looked like they were running ahead of him, but he understood the movement to be one made in trust. They trusted him not to shoot them in the backs, and were willing to let him run back the way he'd come if he was having second thoughts. Reid didn't take advantage of the opportunity, though.

He followed them past the older graves, and onto the flat half acre leading to the newer additions. The orange glow was still burning bright from the sharp rectangle carved into the earth. Reid raised a brow.

"Did you use a backhoe? You must have been excavating for hours."

Sam huffed out a short laugh. "Let's just say, our dad taught us that marines carry shovels and how to use them properly."

"Yeah, thankfully most spirits are of the old timey variety," Dean cut in. "Modern graves are kind of a bitch, but lucky us, this cemetery doesn't require burial vaults. Makes our lives a lot easier. But you didn't really come here to learn how to dig up a body. And I have a feeling that if you were going to arrest us, we'd be swarmed with feds by now. So what's on your mind, Dr. Reid?"

Reid opened his mouth, and promptly closed it again. He'd spent most of the day thinking about what he wanted to ask the Winchesters, but he was suddenly drawing a blank on how to start.

Sam did it for him. "Judging from how talkative you were at the cabin, I'm sure you have a list of questions for us. Can I give you a piece of advice? Don't ask."

"But - "

Dean raised a hand, a sad smile on his face. "I realize this might be killing you on the inside, but Sam's right. You'll sleep better at night without those answers, Spencer. You already know enough to put you in therapy. You've got a job to do, man. You take out the human monsters, remember? That's enough to keep you busy until you earn a nice cushy retirement."

"I'm assuming that's not something hunters can look forward to," Reid commented. He frowned at the dim look in their eyes, wishing he hadn't made the comment, but he couldn't take it back. "You could stop," he said, his voice quieter. He could hear the pointlessness of the words, their hollow ring, but he couldn't stop himself from airing the sentiment. "Serial killers, the other need-based offenders we go after, they can't. They have to keep doing what they do, but you're not wired like them. You're like us. You call this a job for a reason. You can quit."

Dean's smile was self-deprecating. "But the pay is so good. And you can't beat those benefits."

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's attempt at sarcasm. "It's not really an option for us, Spencer," he answered, soberly. "But I think you already know that."

"You can't quit," Reid agreed, "because you have the knowledge and skills to help people. And not using that knowledge would make you feel like you were contributing to their deaths."

Reid could see it in the way they held themselves, the reflective glances they were trying to abstain from, that there was more to it than helping people. That he had simplified something complicated. There was something personal there, some drive that maybe wasn't entirely about hunting, but he couldn't ask them. He couldn't bring himself to question what they were afraid of, deep down. They mentioned monsters and ghosts without flinching, but there was a bigger picture, and that chilled Reid to the bone.

"This is you trying to find a round-about reason why we should fill you in on everything about everything, so that we don't feel guilty about you feeling guilty, isn't it?" Dean huffed. "What? I might not be a profiling genius but I know when someone is working up to a guilt trip."

Sam gave him a sideways glance at the comment, but ignored it otherwise. "What Dean means is, we're not folding on this. Not right now. Stay away from this, until you can't anymore, alright?"

"And when I can't stay away?" Reid offered.

Dean rolled his eyes. "I'll text you a number. It's a burner. Try not to use it. Though I have a feeling that if you really needed us, Penelope could hunt our asses down in no time. Really hope she's not pissed at us enough to try."

Reid's cheek twitched at the comment. "I think my colleagues are still trying to figure out why she isn't, actually. I couldn't blame them for being confused when she looked relieved to hear you'd escaped unharmed. Not that she said as much."

"She was?" Dean grinned, elbowing Sam. "I still got it."

Sam brushed him off with a small smile of his own. "We've got to fill in this grave and hit the road, Dean... Spencer, uh, it was good meeting you, and sorry about the whole...abduction thing." He reached out a hand, almost hesitantly, and Reid took it, giving it a squeeze. "Kind of hope we don't see you again, though," he finished, lightly. He nodded at his brother. "I'll clean up and move the car around."

"The car you immediately stole from the police impound while being the subject of a county-wide manhunt," Reid commented, in return.

"What? We were supposed to leave Baby behind?" Dean scoffed.

Sam shook his head and walked off, scooping up a duffle bag of supplies as he moved, and Reid realized Dean was still standing in place, waiting for something. Reid thought he knew what it was, but the other man was suspiciously quiet, glancing over his shoulder at the receding flames from the grave. Sam was at the treeline before he opened his mouth again.

"Whether he's cremated or not, I don't think Ricky Trapp's going to be much of a problem when he passes, so you don't have to worry about him," he mentioned, clearing his throat. "Glenn's spirit was still MIA when we dug up the grave. Think he was mostly using the old class ring Sam torched and his brother as his links to the world, ya know? But, on the off chance Casper was still around, we needed to make sure he didn't build up his strength again, start haunting the old homestead, or whatever."

Reid tried not to get distracted by the questions that statement brought to mind, even if he wanted more than anything to ask how all of it worked. He recognized Dean's rambling for what it was, and he brushed it aside. "It was real then," Reid finally said.

Dean raised a brow at him.

"Not just the ghost," Reid quickly amended. "What you told me in the cabin. What happened to you. That was real."

Dean wiped a hand over his lips, but he didn't look Reid in the eye when he answered. "If I say no, you'll know I'm lying, won't you?"

"Dean, I think you should try to reach out to someone about it." Reid moved to take a step forward and hesitated. "I wasn't trying to play on your emotions when I told you that you were traumatized. Bottling up an experience like that…"

"What? It's a one way trip to crazytown? You afraid I'm going to have a mental breakdown?" Dean snorted. He shook his head, his eyes distant. "Trust me, I got enough on my plate right now to keep me together. I can't afford to stop and think too hard about it, alright? I can't afford trauma. Forget I ever told you about it."

_It._ It being his death. It being Hell. Neither of them could manage to say those words aloud, Reid realized.

"That's highly unlikely." Reid was quiet a moment longer before he held out a hand, the same as he had when he said goodbye to Sam. "You can call me, if you need to talk. You don't have to bury it."

"I really do," Dean replied, but he reached out, taking the offered hand. "Bye, Spencer."

"Bye, Dean."

* * *

He'd gotten the update on the drive back to civilization, a simple message from the attending physician, noting the time of Ricky Trapp's death. Reid knew the rest of the team had gotten a similar update, and he figured they'd be calling him soon, so he wasn't surprised when Garcia's name lit up the front of his cell phone. It was late now, well into the night since he'd spent longer than he wanted to admit sitting in his car, contemplating driving after the Winchesters to insist on more answers, and he realized the team would already be home by now, some of them probably already settled into bed. He had a feeling Garcia was already at her apartment from the way she spoke.

"You were supposed to call me, _Dr. Reid_ ," she greeted, and it sounded almost like a threat.

Reid winced. He'd ignored her text when he was leaving the graveyard, his nerves too on edge for him to trust himself to answer. He opened his mouth, planning to make an excuse, and was interrupted before he could begin.

"I'm going to ignore the fact that you sent Derek to tell me you weren't flying back with us and forgive you for keeping me out of the loop while you stayed at a serial killer's death bed all day, because a super distraught Kevin was here to greet me when I came home, and we were barely through my apartment's door before he said he had something he'd been dying to show me."

"I don't know if I want to hear this part," Reid commented, making a face.

"No, okay, yes, that warm welcome might have delayed me calling, but also...there was a book." Penelope's voice hushed slightly as she whispered something to Kevin to keep him from interrupting in the background. "I, by no means, read as fast you, but from what I've gleaned, this book has a super familiar storyline. Like, okay maybe not the actual plotline, which is kind of wacky and the writing itself is a bit sub-par, but the main characters…You're not going to believe the characters. You have read it."

Reid blinked, confused by the conversation. "Garcia, I hate to interrupt, but it's been a long day, and I still need to check into a hotel. My bus leaves early tomorrow. Could we talk about this later?"

Kevin's muffled voice said something, and Penelope shushed him, then sighed. "Fine. Fine… There's probably a bizarre explanation for it anyway… Speaking of bizarre, do the locals have any leads on the Winchesters?"

"I'm sure they're long gone by now," Reid assured, and he hoped his voice didn't sound as pitched over the phone. He pulled the car off the road when he realized that she wasn't ready to end the conversation.

He hated lying to his work family, especially since Penelope, out of all of them, might hope the Winchesters would get away, might believe they were innocent of most of their crimes, even if she still thought they were delusional. He hoped she at least didn't notice - Morgan, Reid was sure, had definitely noticed that he wasn't getting the full story, and for some reason, even Prentiss seemed rattled by the case. Reid wondered if maybe she'd seen something, too, something her rational brain wanted to explain away.

"Plus, they're not our problem anymore," Reid added, as an afterthought.

"Oh, I know," Penelope said, with a slight chuckle. "The entire team was eavesdropping when Strauss called to tell Hotch we weren't going to be handling any further search for Sam and Dean, and they were baffled, to say the least, but I was relieved, at the time, because, well."

"Because you know you'd find them without breaking a sweat?" Reid wondered.

"Damn skimpy."

He smiled to himself. "Something tells me the Winchesters would agree with you."

Penelope was so quiet that Reid was afraid he'd given something away. When she finally replied, he heard pages turning. It sounded like she was flipping through the book she'd been rambling on about.

"Reid, we were terrified we were going to die for over twenty-four hours, and now we're just brushing it off like this happens every week, and here I am, trying to attribute all of the weirdness to some paperback pulp fiction." She paused, then laughed nervously. "Is something wrong with us? Because I know everyone is looking at us like we're off our rockers for shrugging off the whole thing like it's a typical Thursday. Not that it's Thursday, but you know what I mean. Laughing in the face of death is not my usual jam, as I am fully aware."

Reid raised a brow, not completely sure why she was so fixated on the book she was reading, but he understood the rest. The part where they were far too okay with what they'd been through. "There's nothing wrong with you, Penelope Garcia," he assured. "It just turns out you're as much a hero in the field as you are in the office."

"You're making me blush, and in front of Kevin, too," she chided. She sobered slightly. "Text me when you get into your hotel room," she ordered, after another moment. "Just so I know you made it inside. And don't talk to any strangers. Because, you know where that path leads. I'll see you soon."

Reid ended the call and stared off into the darkened wilderness past his headlights, wondering what else was waiting in the shadows, and if any of those unseen dangers were what kept the Winchesters on the road, hunting and hunted. He knew he should look away, because looking meant he was all the more likely to find what was waiting there.

"If you gaze for long into an abyss," he quoted, softly, "the abyss gazes also into you."

Tonight, at least, he'd follow the advice of the Winchesters, and looked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep breath here, as we have now reached the conclusion. I know it wasn't what everyone was looking for necessarily, but better to be imperfect and finished than perfect and untouched for another decade, right? I want to give a huge thank you to my readers. I know a handful of you have been with me since I started this fic in 2011. I appreciate your reviews and your private messages, even when I haven't always been the most diligent in replying. You are the reason this story is now finished.
> 
> I had a few side-bar scenes that, despite being in my outline and filling in a few plot gaps with side characters, just didn't fit into the story, and I might write those out at a later time. If I do, I'll just post them as a bonus chapter on this story, so feel free to subscribe to this fic even though it's completed, if that sounds interesting to you.
> 
> As a parting "gift" to you for reading… I know several fellow readers have mentioned that they wish there was a "if you liked this story, then read this" type area after a fic they enjoyed. So, here's my recommendations. If you enjoyed, I See a Darkness, seek out some of these Supernatural/Criminal Minds crossovers I've read and enjoyed on various sites over the years:
> 
> The Time has Come to be Gone by jujuberry136
> 
> Defect by kikkimax
> 
> Sour Cherry Pie Life by FaithDaria
> 
> This Bitter Earth by art_savage
> 
> Eat It Twilight by liliaeth
> 
> Monsters are Real by whiskeygalore
> 
> Point of Know Return by inkandpaperqwerty


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